


Obsession: Cuts like a Knife

by stress



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stress/pseuds/stress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't supposed to love her, but he did. She wasn't supposed to be terrified, but she was. When Rip's affections become too much, Jessa flees Far Rockaway for Manhattan and discovers that she doesn't always have to be afraid. [A Stress origin story, 11 years in the making]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As you wish

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Most of the characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.
> 
> Warnings: This story has a hard-T rating. It will be light at times, it will be dark at times, there will be liberal mentions of steel blades and what they can do if in the wrong pair of hands, as well as scenes where that unfortunately happens. Rip's obsession with his dead sister (see: A Virign's Touch) borders on incestuous at times, and the attentions he lavishes on Jessa are most definitely non-consensual. Spindle, it must be said, is just off her rocker, but I like her that way...

**_Obsession: Cuts like a Knife_ **

initial posting: 08.18.06

  


revised: 03.03.13

* * *

  
_I'm alive,_   
_I'm right behind you._   
_You say forget but I'll remind you._   
_You can try to hide but you know that I will find you._   


\- "I'm Alive" _, Next to Normal_  


* * *

**May 26, 1895**  


* * *

_Tap, tap—pop._

_Tap, tap—snap._

_Tap, tap, tap, tap_ …

Gayle O'Connor smiled warmly at the girl waiting impatiently in her kitchen. The constant tapping was unnerving, the incessant gum-chewing even worse, but she tried not to let it show, if only for Jessa's sake.

"I'm sure Jessa will be out in just a moment," she said, her thick Irish brogue noticeable for her discomfort. This dark-haired child, fifteen, maybe sixteen years old, was watching her unblinkingly. The elderly woman nodded. "If you'll just excuse me, I'll go and see what's keeping her."

Scooping up her skirt in her wrinkled hands, Mrs. O'Connor bustled from the kitchen until she was standing right outside of her ward's bedroom. She knocked softly. "Jessa, my girl, there's someone out here waiting for you."

The reply was muffled, nearly out of breath—

"I'll be right out, ma'am." Or maybe it was _mum_. In times of nerve, her accent could be just as strong as her adopted grandmother's.

And if it wasn't for how worried she was about this morning, or how frantic to hear that Spindle was already there, the young girl might have reminded Mrs. O'Connor that she preferred to be called simply _Jess_ ; _Jessa_ had always been too frilly for her. But she _was_ worried and still wearing only her chemise, so rather than quibble over her Christian name, she allowed that quick response before reaching out and grabbing the fine black skirt folded at the foot of her bed. She had to look her best.

The day had come when Spindle Scott, the head of the newsgirls in their town of Far Rockaway—a well-known Irish neighborhood on the far side of Queens—had finally invited her to sell newspapers with her. As all the girls knew, you were either accepted into the elite gang of street girls when Spindle asked you to go out and sell as her partner or that was the last time you dared walk the Far Rockaway streets with a paper in your hand.

For a heartbeat Jess wondered if the launderer two blocks over was still taking on new girls before shaking her head and pulling on her black skirt.

"Almost done," she murmured, her own voice a blend of the mother tongue and the powerful New York accent when in control; otherwise she thought she sounded like a leprechaun.

She grabbed the beige blouse Mrs. O'Connor had hanging over the bed, hurried fingers finding it hard to do up the buttons properly. Even though the O'Connors were not very well-off themselves, Mrs. O'Connor was very deft with a needle. Ever since her and her husband, Seamus, had taken her in when she was little more than a child, Jess had never gone around looking as if she was in need.

Once she was dressed, Jess looked herself over once in the mirror and sighed. In the reflection she saw a slim girl, one who looked older than her thirteen years for all the hardship she suffered at an early age: losing her mother, her father and her home in Ireland all within one short year. With her sandy curls falling down past her shoulders, a mischievous glint in her cat-like eyes and a dusting of freckles over her pale nose, she was as Irish as they come which wasn't so noticeable in Far Rockaway.

A delicate silver chain poked out from beneath her neckline, lying crooked against her collarbone. A relic from her past life, it had once belonged to her dead mother; it was all she had left from her first family and she was always afraid of losing it—or worse, having it stolen. As friendly as many of the Rockaway girls were, silver was silver and dollars were dollars.

Jess tucked her necklace under her chemise, careful to keep it hidden. She then patted the front of her blouse, pleased to see it was unnoticeable, and ruffled her curls one final time, trying to tame them.

Ah, well. She was as ready as she was ever going to get.

Pausing only to grab the dime off of her dresser, she scurried out into the front room and stopped, nearly falling over as she dodged Mr. O'Connor's footstool. There was a girl, tall and thin—maybe a few years older than her thirteen—standing in the kitchen. She was extremely restless, twirling the ends of her mud-brown ponytail around one finger, glowering slightly as she forever _tap-tap-tapp_ ed her foot.

Jess recognized her sharp profile at once: it was Snappa Barrow, one of Spindle's top girls. Her name had once been Snapper, courtesy of her habit of popping and snapping away at her Tutti-Frutti chewing gum whenever she was awake, but over the years it had faded into a nickname of a nickname and Snappa refused to answer unless that _a_ was there.

She didn't know what to think about this. On one hand it was good that she hadn't kept Spindle waiting, but on the other—

"Snappa? A fair mornin' to you but… wasn't Spindle supposed to meet me?" she asked, trying not to sound so nervous and failing miserably. "We're selling together, aren't we?"

It was common knowledge that Spindle always sold alone, unless she was looking over a new girl, weighing her over to see if she was worthy to sell in her territory. That was why Jess was waiting for Spindle. Except...

Jess had the sudden, terrible thought that maybe, just maybe Spindle had decided that Jess wasn't even worth the _test_. After all, she was three years younger than Spindle and, unlike most of the other girls who lodged in the Queens' Home for Girls, actually had a place to call home. Most of Spindle's gang of newsgirls resented the fact that she didn't have to live in the lodging house or worry about sleeping on the street or going hungry if she didn't sell as many papers as she should.

Snappa unwound the knotted ends of her hair from her finger, let out an obnoxious snap of her chewing gum, before standing up from her slouch. Her lips curved upwards slightly but what it was that amused her, Jess couldn't say. She already felt like she was failing.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about her just yet. Spindle had errands of her own and passed you off to me," Snappa said with a wrinkle to her pug nose. "She said she'd meet her down at the distribution center." _Snap_. _Pop._ "You ready?"

"Aye—I mean… I am," Jess answered and, glancing over her shoulder, saw Mrs. O'Connor hovering in the hall. "I'll be leaving now then. Tell the mister I hope he has a nice time at work today," she added, the words slipping out before she had even though of saying them. A quick glance back at Snappa revealed she hadn't seemed to notice. Jess breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Mr. O'Connor worked as a trolley conductor for the Steinway Railway Company. Though he was getting on in years, his wages ensured that the couple had enough to afford a two bedroom apartment in Queens—one room for the married pair to share and one for Jess so she had some semblance of privacy in the small apartment. The O'Connors had had no children of their own together and, though they were both well into their sixties, they had long ago come to think of Jess as their child and treated her as such. In return, Jess thought of them as the parents she had lost—though, she reminded herself, it wouldn't serve to flaunt that fact in front of an orphaned girl of the streets.

Mrs. O'Connor came over and gave Jess a quick kiss on the cheek before murmuring a quick prayer over her head just like she did every morning. No matter how many times she was told that there was no need for her to sell papers to make rent, Jess always insisted so that there would be a few extra cents a week.

"You take care, my girl. I expect you home for lunch," she told her ward. "It'll be stew."

Jess had to suppress a laugh; it was better than the sudden heat of embarrassment that licked at her cheek where Mrs. O'Connor's lips had just been. Of course it was stew. In the O'Connors apartment, it was _always_ Irish stew.

"Yes, ma'am," she said and, avoiding Snappa's slight smirk, led the older girl to the front door.

As she watched the two girls leave, Gayle O'Connor couldn't help but think back to the day they had met young Jessa Rhian. It had been on the steamer ship that brought the Gayle and Seamus to the new world and the girl had been a wee child then, six years old at the time, and her only family, her father, had been found dead in the cramped undersides of the ship. The captain ensured that the girl would go straight to the orphanage once they docked at Ellis Island but Mrs. O'Connor felt pity for the tear-streaked child. She was a Sligo girl, after all, and Mrs. O'Connor never lost her Irish pride.

After convincing her husband that it would be the best thing to do, Gayle had offered to take young Jessa with them when they set off to find a home in New York. She had lived with them since then, for over seven years now. And, as Mrs. O'Connor pulled the chuck meat out of the icebox in order to start the stew, she couldn't imagine life any other way.

* * *

"Wait here," Snappa instructed. _Pop_. "Spindle will meet you here."

Jess nodded. She would have answered the older girl but, before she had even thought to answer with a _yes_ instead of an _aye_ , Snappa had already walked off. Only the pierce of her final _snap_ hung in the air, keeping Jess company on the opposite side of the distribution center's gates.

The gates were open and, glancing in, she could see there was already a line forming to snatch up the morning's _New York Sun_. She peered back behind her—no sign of Spindle just yet—and looked over at the line again. Jess was just wondering if she would have enough time to buy her newspapers and come back to this spot before Spindle arrived when she caught sight of a familiar figure waving her over from the edge of the walkway.

Grace Delaney was a tiny girl, nearly half a head shorter than Jess, who earned her nickname for her ability to float gracefully through the crowd; she could run so fleetly that it seemed like her usually bare feet never touched the cobbles. She had ratty blonde hair that seemed darker when she went weeks without washing it and dark blue eyes that raged like a storm when she was cross, but she had a kind heart and Jess felt most of her nerves melt away when she was Grace smiling at her.

One more peek to determine that Spindle still wasn't there and Jess quickly slipped inside the gates. She knew that if there was one other person who understood her desire to be accepted into Spindle's gang it was Grace. Especially since it was Grace's word that even had Spindle entertaining the idea at all.

As odd a friendship as it was, the two girls had known each other for years: Grace had been living at the Girls' Home since she was eight and had always seemed to sell her papers on the corner street near the O'Connors' apartment. Jess had bought one from her every day before taking up the banner herself—Grace was the first newsgirl she had ever seen, given that most newsies she knew were the dirty boys she purposely avoided.

It was Grace who introduced her to selling papers, not too long ago and only because Jess had pleaded with her for ages to. When the weather was fair and Grace not begging for pennies and scraps, the pair would sell on that same street corner. It wasn't unusual for Grace to spend the night in Jess's small room when the headlines were bad and the sales poor. In fact, the O'Connors had offered the girl a place to stay too many times to count but Grace had lived on the streets too long to be comfortable in a real home. Besides, she enjoyed her freedom too much to and, at times, liked to tease about the rules they created for Jess.

As she headed towards Grace, Jess saw that the other girl wasn't alone.

Two girls, tall and thick and standing like trees beside the diminutive Grace, each gave Jess a once over as she approached. They were both fair-skinned with freckles, wavy brown hair and dark eyes. At first glance they could be twins, they looked so similar, but Rumor and Lucy—who preferred to be called Luce—swore they weren't even related.

"Mornin', girls," she greeted them, purposely lapsing into a tone more New York than brogue. Far Rockaway was an Irish town but it was always a safer bet to appear as Native as possible. "Nice day to be sellin' papers."

Rumor and Luce exchanged a look before they both gave Jess tight-lipped smiles. But neither of them said a word to her and if she hadn't been so used to it, it might have stung.

She liked to think that Grace's pals were her friends too, but she knew better. They could be friendly at times… but they weren't actually _friends_. Rumor thought all of the Far Rockaway newsgirls should stay at the Girls' Home, and Luce couldn't understand why Jess insisted on selling newspapers and taking customers when she didn't need it the same way the others did. But Grace always backed up Jess, so Rumor and Luce—and some of the other girls—were nice enough.

Grace reached out and took Jess by the wrists. "Today's the day. You excited?"

"I'm a wee bit wary," she admitted. "I don't want to do anything to upset my chances."

Rumor murmured something to Luce and the other girl laughed.

Jess's brow wrinkled. "Was it something I said?" she asked Grace.

"I wouldn't listen to Rumor," Grace began before Luce cut in.

"Rumor just said you'd improve your chances if you rolled your skirt up a bit at the waist. Show a little ankle. Get the fellas eatin' outta your hand, sell the papes, and show Spindle you got what it takes to make it in Far Rockaway."

Her voice was high and breathy, and, for those who didn't know the pair at all, one of the only ways to tell the two apart. Luce had a tendency to giggle as she spoke. 

"You… it'll help?"

Rumor shrugged, though her dark brown eyes sparkled mischievously. "Can't hurt."

As Jess's fingers fumbled to lift the hem up off of the ground by an inch or two, Grace clicked her tongue. While Rumor and Luce were right—it wouldn't hurt sales surely—she wasn't so certain that Spindle would approve. Their volatile leader was just that: volatile. On any given initiation, none of the girls knew what she was looking for. Sometimes it was selling skills, sometimes it was obedience, and sometimes it was whether or not Spindle felt threatened by another girl.

At least there was thing she could say about Jess Rhian. She was quite possibly the least threatening creature in all of Queens.

"How's this?" Jess asked.

It wasn't that big of a change, but Luce said, "Looks good, honey. Nice shoes. Give me a good knife and we can make those heels dangerous."

Jess glanced at the block edge of her shoe and then looked at the pointed heels Luce had on under her much shorter skirt (you could see skin, she thought scandalously, no stockings!). She couldn't understand what exactly Luce meant but, before she could ask, a new voice broke in—

"Here you are. I thought I said I'd meet you outside of the gates."

Jess's grin slipped right off of her face as she spun around anxiously; if her heels had been any less dependable, she would've stumbled and fallen over. She knew that voice.

A petite girl stood behind her, a girl with long flame-red hair and dark green eyes narrowed over at Jess in particular. While she was short—but not so short as Grace—and rail-thin, she exuded only confidence despite her size. She walked with power in her every stride, reveling in how all conversations had stopped as she passed.

Rumor poked Luce in the side, but not before awarding Spindle with a respectful nod. "C'mon," she said quickly, "let's go get our papes before they all sell out."

Luce bobbed her head in agreement. "Nice sellin', Spindle." Then, almost as an afterthought, she breathed, "You, too, Jess."

Grace opened her mouth to say something but stopped when Rumor reached out and grabbed her by the elbow. She grinned impishly at Jess—whose eyes begged her to stay—and waved at the two girls as Rumor led her towards the line. Quick as that, the leader and the new girl were left alone together.

"Spindle, I'm so sorry," Jess apologized. The leader was as known for her temper as her sharp blade and Jess was wise enough not to want to tangle with either. "I should've been waiting where you said."

"Yeah, ya shoulda." But there wasn't much bite to her words, and they were followed by a wide yawn. Spindle had the appearance of one who didn't get much sleep the night before. Her hair was flat, her eyes were puffy and her yellow button down shirt, missing the top two buttons as it was, was buttoned wrong. "Ready to go?"

"I just have to go and buy my papes," Jess told her, referring to the newspapers with the slang the other newsies used, "and then I'm set."

"Then what are ya waitin' for?"

Nothing, that's what. Jess could feel Spindle's disapproval like a dark cloud overhead and, eager to please if only to finally claim a respected spot in the Far Rockaway scheme, she bowed her head obediently.

"Right away," she said and started for the same path the others had just taken… until she heard a rich, smooth masculine voice call from behind her and stopped at once. For some reason, it made her stop dead in her tracks—

"Wait, Spindle. Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend here? It would be polite, no?"

—and slowly Jess turned because, suddenly, it seemed even more important to find out who had a voice like that.

And there he was, a tall, handsome boy of around sixteen, seventeen tops. He walked over to Spindle, more of a cunning swagger really; there was a sizeable stack of papers already tucked underneath his arm. With his sculpted features, olive-colored skin, jet black hair and icy, icy blue eyes, he was absolutely gorgeous and, as Jess could tell just by the way he smiled at her, he _knew_ it, too.

Those eyes were locked on her, piercing her, keeping her frozen on her step. Jess's heart started to pound and, under the weight of his stare, she shivered.

Spindle frowned for a moment before reassuming a disinterested expression. "I don't see why. She's just another one of the girls who wants to sell in my territory."

"She has a name?"

"Of course she does." Spindle's snap of an answer showed she was losing patience at the direction of this conversation. "It's Jess. Jess, this is Rip… Rip Divenize… and he's mine." She patted the sleeve of his faded blue shirt possessively as she explained, "He just moved to Queens from Harlem so he could be closer to me. You get it?"

"I… um, yes. It's nice to meet you," trilled Jess nervously. No one had ever looked at her that way before and she wasn't sure she liked it. And what made it worse was that _he still wasn't looking away_. Trying not to look as if she was doing so, she moved her hand behind her and gave the fold of her skirt a downwards tug.

Rip slipped his arm out from under Spindle's touch and stepped forward to take Jess's hand; he must've caught her gesture, because he made sure to take the one she had hidden behind her back. His fingers were callused and rough but his palm was warm and his grip tighter than a crab's pinch.

"Ah, but the pleasure is all mine, I'm sure," he drawled. His voice was low and hoarse and contained the hint of an accent that she couldn't quite place.

Jess blushed from the roots of her hair down to her shoes at his forward manner. In an effort to pretend she wasn't as uncomfortable as she was, she sought out Spindle. Spindle's expression was blank, unreadable, and Jess just hoped that was a _good_ thing. She had heard rumors about what Spindle was like when she was angry and, well, at least she didn't look angry.

 _Right_?

She cleared her throat when it became clear that Spindle wasn't interested in helping her out of this situation. "Well, um, I think I should go get my papers now. I'll just—" And here she managed to slip her hand out of his, Rip laughing as she did so before swaggering back to the redhead's side, "—I'll just be right back."

Spindle gave her a curt nod and let her lips split into a scowl only when she saw that Jess had finally scampered over to the line. She took in a deep breath and then, despite the fact that others were still in earshot, she turned to face Rip with fire in her eyes.

"Rip, damn it, just _what_ do you think you were playin' at?" she hissed through gritted teeth. She just couldn't wrap her head around the fact that he had had the nerve to hit on one of her girls—and a younger girl, no less—while she was standing right there. He was _her_ fella!

But Rip shrugged and turned his charming smile towards Spindle; his eyes, though, never left Jess as she stood on line, her face turned away from him. Once or twice he saw her mousy gaze throw a worried glance back at him and deep down, like a big, fat alley cat, he purred in pleasure.

To Spindle, though, he just said: "What? I'm trying to make some friends. When I came to live here, _you_ said that I should make some friends."

Spindle scowl deepened and the expression brought out the depths of her eyes, vivid against her pale skin. "Friends sure, but I don't remember tellin' you to get yourself a girl, too. I thought that was me." She paused and, when she spoke again, her voice was low. Guttural. "It's _always_ been me."

Rip reached over and pecked her cheek. "Ah, but don't you worry, pet, you know you're my one and only," he said and reached one of his hands up to pat her hair soothingly. When she leaned into his hand, he smiled. Wrapped around his finger like always.

Seeing it was time to remind her of that fact, Rip gently pulled away from her, silently gloating over the growl deep in her throat.

"Not here… not now. I promised some of the fellas I'd walk around with them today, get a feel for the streets. Come find me later, though? I'll be waiting for you," he added, lowering his voice so that only she could hear him.

Spindle longed to tell him no, that she couldn't bear to be separated from him again after so long apart, but she couldn't. She glanced back at the distribution window and nodded to herself. She had her own plans after all and Jess was already returning with the tiny stack of papers she'd purchased. The younger girl seemed to be dragging her heels, taking her time as she headed back towards where Spindle and Rip were standing together, apart from the hustling, bustling morning crowd surrounding them.

Good, thought Spindle. It always served to make sure that the other girls knew their place. Fear, worries, nerves… those were the appropriate responses—and staying far away from Rip Divenize, too. Even _better_.

"If you're waiting for me, then I'll be there," Spindle told him, turning back and giving Rip the small smile that she reserved only for him. But, because this _was_ Spindle, she reached out and poked him in the shoulder before he could move any further away. "Oh," she said silkily, "one more thing?"

Rip froze, tensing under the point of her finger. Swallowing an angry retort, he said simply, "Anything for you."

Her smile was wicked and sharp, like the curve of her blade. "Don't you ever call me _pet_ again."

It was a good thing Rip still had his back to her. Even a hardened girl like Spindle might've quailed at the dark expression that flickered across his handsome features. " _È meglio di altri_ ," he murmured.

"What was that?"

"As you wish, Spindle."

* * *

**Translation** :

 _È meglio di altri_ \- It's better than others (other names)

* * *

**Author's Note** : I can't really explain what I'm doing. I wrote the first version of _Cuts Like a Knife_ over the course of a month nearly eleven years ago. I was on the high of discovering both _Newsies_ and fan fiction and I jumped in head first. I know now that I fell into every single cliche there was, but the story still holds a very special place in my heart.

However, when I launched the rewrite back in 2006 (seven years ago now!), I had wanted to get rid of the New Yawk accent that littered the original, as well as try to stick to the historical accuracy that was lacking in the first version. A lot more research went into it and, following the heels of _A Virgin's Touch_ (the story written in 2006 that detailed Luke "Rip" Divenize's life before CLAK), I felt like I was giving the characters both depth and purpose.

Now, though, I feel that there's more to be done. I'm in the finishing stages of two original novels and in preparation of a third one - a historical novel this time - I thought I'd revisit this old story. Last summer I had started a simple rewrite just for me but, after re-reading those first few scenes, I fell in love with it all all over again. And, thus, the idea for this second revisal hit me.

So, yes. There will be new characters, new scenes, and a different approach to my villains and my heroes. I don't want them to be bad because I say so, but because they are bad, and vice versa. I want it to be real, and I want it to feel real to the readers. And, more than anything, I want to introduce new readers/new Newsies fans to these characters that have been so important to me for more than a decade. Call it nostalgia if you will, or a reluctance to let them go, but I'm going to pour my heart and soul into this thing and all I ask is that you enjoy it!

Of course, reviews, feedback and comments are always appreciated. Let me know what you think. As an author, I crave response.

Thank you so much!

– _stress, 03.03.13_


	2. Il mio cuore

**_Obsession: Cuts like a Knife_ **

initial posting: 08.19.06  
revised: 03.04.13

* * *

Jess was just about at her wit's end and, worse, she didn't know what to do about it.

Shielding her eyes against the bright May sun as it hit its peak, she could tell that it was growing even later and later and yet she was _still_ waiting for some sign of an answer from Spindle about how their morning selling had gone. Because she assumed selling wasn't as important as giving Spindle a chance to get to know her, Jess had only bought twenty papers to peddle that morning and they were long since sold; Spindle sold at least double, easy, and even her hands were empty. But rather than tell her one way or another if she'd been accepted into the gang, Spindle insisted that the two make a quick rounds of Spindle's territory, wiling away the time until she had to go meet Rip.

Except, it had been at least another hour since then and, apart from mindless chatter about who that corner belonged to or headlines that really hooked the customers, Spindle kept to herself. She seemed lost in thought, absently running her pointer finger across her bottom lip every time she glanced over Jess's way again.

Jess hoped that Spindle's silence was a good sign but couldn't be so sure. She felt like she was on display, Spindle judging everything about her, from her appearance to her attitude to the manner in which she just followed her down the street. Knowing her every move was being analyzed made her nervous and clumsy; she nearly tripped twice and managed to walk into one brick corner, tearing her sleeve and scraping her arm as she did. Spindle chuckled and Jess grimaced, and neither said another word as they continued on their walk.

Until the younger girl just couldn't take the heavy quiet any longer. In an attempt to lighten the mood, she groped for any topic of conversation that might stop Spindle from eyeing her like a farmer checking out a newborn calf. She thought back to the distribution center that morning, to Spindle's arrival and a pair of icy blue eyes. And then she had it.

"So," Jess wondered out loud, "how long have you known Rip?"

Spindle stopped in her tracks, tensing as she did. "Why?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you askin' about Rip?"

Jess heard the venom in Spindle's voice and knew she had asked the wrong question—even if she didn't know what was so wrong about it. She gave a nervous little laugh. "It was just… you seemed so close this morning. I've heard the other girls talking of him as your beau and… I was only wondering, Spindle. I'm sorry."

"Oh." Spindle tossed her head back like a wild stallion—momentarily appeased but there was no guarantee that that would last. "My beau, that's right, and none of you girls had better forget it."

The jealousy was obvious and something Jess had been expecting. Grace told her the week before that Spindle warned every girl in the Home to stay away if Rip ever came to town and now that he was there… "I'm sure none of us will," Jess said solemnly, a bit of hope sparking at the word _us_. Maybe she'd passed Spindle's test after all, she thought, and when Spindle started walking full steam ahead again, she made sure to keep in step.

It wasn't too much longer, though, before Spindle broke the quiet herself.

"Two years."

"Two years?" repeated Jess.

"Yeah," Spindle agreed, a hint of a smile coming to her face. "You asked me how long I'd known Rip. The answer's two years."

When Jess thought that the topic of Rip was one Spindle enjoyed discussing, she was right. Now that Spindle was sure enough that Jess was as warned as the rest of the Far Rockaway girls, she had no problem boasting when it came to Rip Divenize.

"We met when I worked for Cecilia over in Harlem. Rip was stayin' at the Harlem House then and, what can I say? We just hit it off," Spindle explained, assuming Jess knew the reputation of either Cecilia Rayner's brothel or the infamous Harlem Lodging House for Working Boys.

Jess didn't but, considering this was the most information she'd ever gotten out of the volatile leader, she wasn't about to admit her ignorance. "Two years… and you've been together that long?"

"He was mine from the minute I laid eyes on him," Spindle said smugly. "Through no fault of my own, I had to high-tail it the hell out of Harlem 'bout a year but, trust me, but I always made time to visit him. But he couldn't bear bein' away from me, ya see, so now he's come to Queens to stay." She paused and then, throwing one steely look over her shoulder at Jess, added abruptly, "Because of _me_."

"That's… that's nice."

"Nice ain't the half of it." Spindle gestured to Jess, telling her to move a little closer so that they were walking side by side. "Now, you listen to me. I'm gonna go with my gut instinct and let you sell papes with us. But, if you're willin' to join up, there's a couple of rules ya gotta follow. No catfights, no stealin', no lyin' to me unless you want your tongue cut out—" Spindle paused for the slightest of seconds to prove to a suddenly stricken Jess that no, she wasn't kidding about that before continuing, "but the most important rule is this: another girl's spoken for is just that—spoken for. Especially Rip. Do ya understand?"

Jess may not have had much of an education but she would've had to have been a fool to say anything but yes; she didn't have to see Spindle's fabled blade to know that it wasn't too far from the older girl's hand. Nodding energetically, she said quickly, "Oh, yes, Spindle."

Spindle narrowed her gaze, looking for any sign of an untruth in Jess' wide-eyed, innocent expression. She hadn't forgotten the way Rip had made it a point to learn her name of all the others down at the gate.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure," Jess said, a touch of bewilderment to her tone—and nerves, too. Rip's friendliness hadn't bypassed the girl, either.

Spindle let a wry smirk pull at her thin lips. "Then I'm glad we had this little talk." Turning around, tilting her head back so that she got a good look at the setting sun, she nodded to herself. "It's gettin' late, don't ya think?"

Jess, who noticed how late it was getting hours ago—and who could already hear a murmured lecture from Mrs. O'Connor over the merits of coming home for lunch like she was supposed to—simply agreed.

"Look, can ya make it back to your place from here? Rip's bound to be waitin' for me by now."

Casting a quick look around, Jess recognized the part of Far Rockaway they were in as one not too far from the O'Connors' building. It was a couple of blocks away, even quicker if she took a shortcut. "Of course."

"In that case… tomorrow morning?"

"Tomorrow morning," Jess confirmed, hoping that her giddiness at officially being accepted by Spindle wasn't _too_ obvious; that, or the relief that Spindle was finally letting her leave. She didn't even wait for Spindle to start off. Eager to be out of her company, Jess waved and then took the turn that would lead her to one of her favorite shortcuts.

Strictly speaking, Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor didn't think that a young girl should take to the dark alleys or the side streets where it was only too easy to get into trouble. If they had it their way, Jess would stick only to the main streets where there was a good chance of a policeman watching every corner. But Jess knew she was already so late and decided that chancing a quick cut-through was a much better option than showing up any later for supper.

Her feet knew the path to take without her having to give them any instructions—which served her just then since, the moment she parted from Spindle, all of her attention focused on her new leader's strange behavior that afternoon. The way Spindle watched her so closely, the suspicion in her comments, the warning in her eyes. Jess might've come off as naïve and innocent in a bid to keep Spindle's temper in check, but she hadn't lived in Far Rockaway these last seven years and not picked up _anything_.

Biting down on her lip, her thoughts tossing and turning in her head, she started to mumble out loud to herself. It was a poor habit and she knew it made her come off as a mad person, but it helped her sort through her thoughts and, just then, that was exactly what she needed.

"I don't know what's wrong with her. She seems to have this silly idea that I have my eyes on her Rip. But where could she have gotten that from? I only met him today—"

"Ah, and you don't believe in love at first sight, _il mio cuore_?"

And there was that voice again. Rich and melodic with a slight lilt… this time she didn't freeze in place but, instead, her head jerked upwards immediately as if it was being manipulated by puppet strings. Except, when she saw Rip Divenize leaning lazily against the brick wall in front of him, a cigarette perched between his lips, an inviting smile keeping it from dropping to the dirt… when she saw Rip looking at her in that same piercing way again, she could hardly believe what she was seeing—or hearing.

She dismissed the odd words he said as nothing more than rambling, though if she knew what those words—an Italian term of endearment—would come to mean to her, she wouldn't have dismissed them so easily. No, she was far more interested in what he had said at first.

Flustered, and only too aware that he was openly staring at her, she started to say, "Oh, hello. You're—" before he stopped her.

"It's Rip," he interrupted, ashing his cigarette and then tucking the ends back in the corner of his charming smile, "but, please, call me Luke if it suits you. I'd love to hear you speak my name."

She felt her cheeks heat up at his flirtatious manner. "I know who you are, Rip."

"And you're Jessa?"

"Jess," she corrected automatically, frowning a little. How in the world had he known that her full name was Jessa?

"Jess," he repeated, mimicking the way her Irish brogue came out with her name; it sounded like _chase_ with a _j_.

His eyes twinkled until he caught sight of the tear in her sleeve. Underneath the thin fabric, the red, raw marks were even more visible than earlier. "What happened here?" he demanded, reaching out for her. "You're hurt."

"It was just an accident," she began, feeling a bit foolish at her own clumsiness.

But before she could even try to explain any further, he was already massaging her skin with his free hand, sending a chill up and down her spine. His action was forward and, because this was Spindle's Rip, entirely unwanted.

_Spindle…_

Jess covered her scrape with the palm of her hand, hiding the marks from his light touch. "Spindle's gone to look for you," she blurted out. "You're supposed to be waiting for her."

Taking one last drag off his cigarette, Rip tossed the ends to the ground. He blew the smoke right at Jess while stubbing out the edge of the cigarette with the tip of his cracked shoe. "Yes, but what if I'd rather be here with you?"

He looked her up and down, taking in her blouse and skirt, and smiled appreciatively. "Tell me: what's a _prima_ girl… a classy girl like you doing hanging 'round with a bunch of street rats like us?" he asked, grinning, gesturing for her to come stand by him.

She hesitated and he chuckled, a low rasp of a laugh that made Jess's heart leap up into her throat.

"I'm not gonna bite you, Jessa." _Jase-a_.

"Jess," she repeated absently before taking a few tentative steps towards the boy. He was intimidating yet exhilarating; she almost wanted to reach out a hand to him and make sure he really was there. Handsome young men didn't start talking to her normally and now that one had… she didn't know what she was supposed to do.

Once she got close enough, Rip grabbed her good arm loosely and pulled her so that her back was to the brick wall as well. She was vaguely uncomfortable at his proximity but tried not to show it, swallowing back her nervous laugh.

"I'm not really all that classy, you know," she confided. "My guardians just like to see that I'm dressed nice. They think it attracts more buyers, looking like this instead of wearing old clothes and hand-me-downs."

Rip nodded before he, almost undetected, pressed his side as close to her as he dared without scaring her off. "If you ask me, I'd say you were classier than some girls," he said, turning to look down at her, "and a lot prettier than most."

The way he just complimented her made her face flush and her stomach drop, causing her to tighten up under the weight of his gaze; the way his side just seemed to brush against hers made her both alert and alarmed. It had been nice for him to pay attention to her but reality was setting in: this was Rip Divenize, Spindle's pet. If she didn't want to get on the wrong side of the temperamental gang leader so soon, she needed to get out of this situation _now._

Rip, seeing her go tense, lifted his hand and stroked her cheek, coaxing her into relaxing. He, at least, didn't seem to care if he upset Spindle or not.

"Now that we've been properly introduced," purred Rip, turning to stand in front of Jess, backing her into the wall as he placed an arm on each side of her, effectively trapping the girl where she stood, "why don't you and I go somewhere to get to know one another a little better, eh, _mio cuore_?"

No one could ever accuse him of not going for what he wanted and, just then, what Rip wanted more than anything was one taste of this frightened girl.

Because, whether she was willing to admit it to herself or not, Jess was starting to feel absolutely terrified. This was _too_ forward and, without really understanding how it had happened, she was snared like a mouse caught in a trap.

"What is it that you keep calling me?" she asked, trying in vain to change the subject. "I don't understand."

He paused for a second and seemed to look uncertain. Or maybe that was a trick of the setting sunlight for, as soon as the expression crossed his face, it was gone; he came off as cocky and as assured as he was only a moment before. And even more threatening for that lapse.

"You do not understand Italian, then?"

She shook her head. "I'm an Irish girl, born and bred," she said proudly. She knew that her accent could be faint at times but her fair skin, slight freckles and darker curls normally tipped her off as an Irish immigrant.

Jess took another appraising look at Rip just then. His skin was a darker shade than her own and his black hair, as dark as coal and neatly parted, was in stark contrast to his crystal blue eyes. She had heard the slight lilt in his voice and assumed it was the trace of an accent. Now she knew it to be an Italian accent—Rip was a wop. She was slightly surprised at that. You didn't find too many Italians in Far Rockaway. They normally lived together over in the Little Italy section of Manhattan.

Rip's unblinking gaze danced across her face, taking her image in. "Maria was Italian," he said simply as if that was all the answer she needed.

Jess didn't know what to say to that, most of all because she didn't know who Maria was. But he didn't seem to expect any further response from her. His thin lips split into a wicked grin just then.

" _Si,_ you may look like her but I see it now. You're much fairer than she was." Another pause. "I think I prefer your coloring to my Maria's."

There wasn't much Jess knew about Spindle apart from what the leader wanted her to know. One of those things, though, was a rumor that Spindle's hated Christian name was Caitlin… so, wondered Jess as her heart started to pound so loudly she was surprised he couldn't hear it… who was Maria? And why… why did Rip want to talk to _her_? Because of her resemblance to some other girl? She didn't understand and, honestly, she wasn't sure she wanted to.

Trying to figure out how she could get out from under his arms without him realizing it, Jess asked shyly, "But what about Spindle?"

Rip laughed lowly, a seductive little chuckle that came off as all the more threatening for the way he refused to lower his gaze—or his arms. He kept Jess pinned right where she was. "Spindle? Oh, she was fun in her way for awhile but she couldn't give me what I wanted. But you, _mio cuore_ , I think you can."

Jess gulped. She still didn't understand the Italian but, for some reason, every time he said it made her stomach sink a little lower. "I… I can?"

"There's only one reason why I came to stay here in Queens, you see. I was told I could find my new Maria here and I have." He raised his hand, she flinched, but Rip continued as if he hadn't noticed. "You could be her twin, I swear it. The same curls," he said, patting her hair, "and the skin, smooth as silk," he added, laying the callused side of his palm against her cheek, "and your eyes, so bright, so innocent… they're not blue like Maria's, but I think I could get used to the green in time. The green, it intrigues me, _mio cuore_."

She longed to shy away from his touch, more than anything because his words continued to flatter her—but rather than think of him as a suitor, Jess couldn't forget… _wouldn't_ forget that Rip belonged to Spindle. She was no fool. As intimidating as Rip Divenize was up close, Jess knew which of the two she feared more.

All Rip had were words. Spindle, she had a _knife_.

"There's those fancy words again," she squeaked. "I still don't know what you're saying."

Rip laughed again, and the husky sound made her stomach quiver this time. She didn't seem to be able to find the humor in the moment like he could.

" _Il mio cuore_ ," he repeated, the words dripping off of his tongue, music to her ears. Gaelic never sounded so melodious when her parents would speak their native language. "It means 'my heart' and that's what you will be for me, my Jessa. And that's what I shall give you: my heart."

Jess paled. The harmless flirting and forward actions had crossed a line with that comment because, no matter how hard she could try to deny Rip's sudden attention, was it even possible to now? He was right there, standing right in front of her, moving closer, pressing his body up against hers. The situation was hopeless, and though she had no idea how she had gotten herself into this mess, it was even clearer that she had no way to get back out.

When she said nothing at all to him, Rip snapped. His clear eyes clouded over, his features dark with some sort of inner rage. "I see the lady doesn't know her own mind," he murmured, his voice low enough that she almost didn't hear him. "Maybe a little something to help her see more clearly."

And then, before she could refuse him or cover her face or even harness her strength and push him away, he leaned all the way in and placed his lips against hers. It was a chaste kiss but with noticeable force behind it. Even a naïve girl like Jess could read the intent tucked behind that kiss.

When he finally pulled back, he stared straight at her, daring her to refuse now—except, when the kiss ended, Rip had forgotten to lift his arms again. Without him pinning her against the brick wall, Jess managed to duck past him and run the way she came. She had been waiting for just a moment and, right as he gave her one, she reacted.

Still, Rip couldn't help but chuckle to himself, watching in amazement as the girl almost tripped in her hurry to escape him. The kiss hadn't done anything to sway her mind; the attention he showed her had frightened her rather than seduce her. Jessa hadn't fallen prey to his charms like he expected and yet… Rip just stood there and chuckled. This girl would be a challenge, he realized.

Good, he thought delightfully to himself. I _like_ the challenge.

Jessa would learn soon enough that there was no getting away from him. In all his sixteen years, there had only been one girl who managed to get away from him once he had set his eyes on her—and his sister had had to be murdered for her to escape him. Rip refused to let that happen this time. Especially not now that he had found her again.

He sighed.

Ah, _Maria_.

* * *

**Translation** :

 _Il mio cuore_ \- My heart

* * *

**Author's Note** : Well, here we go. In the realm of riding this wave of inspiration while it lasts, here's the next revised chapter. To new readers (who probably wonder how this already has 120 reviews - or why it's been 7 years between updates) this is a revised version of an old fic that I've decided to re-post after a (second, admittedly) complete rewrite. Still, there's new characters, new scenes and plenty of style changes to this updated story to interest both those familiar with the Stress/Jack saga and those who have no idea what's going on. That's okay. You will soon enough (if you keep reading, that is!).

Anywho, I still love this sequence. I really want Rip's troubled past and damaged future to begin to eke out here if only to lay the scene for what comes next. Is it sad that I think I enjoy my villain at times like these?

Ah, well. Enjoy!

– _stress, 03.04.13_


	3. A virgin's touch

* * *

**__**

**_Obsession: Cuts like a Knife_**

initial posting: 08.21.06  
revised: 03.09.13

* * *

Jess Rhian slowed down to a brisk pace once a few blocks separated her from Rip but that didn't mean she stopped hurrying. She didn't. Moving quickly, trying hard not to stumble in, the girl hurried down the street, dodging the squatters on the corner, hoping and praying that she could get away from him.

Because, even though she was certain she had left Rip at the brick wall alone, Jess could still feel the pressure of his thin lips on hers. She could still see those clouded eyes, full of fury, full of lust as he stared down at her hungrily. She could still—

She shuddered and crossed herself, trying to put the memory of his sins behind her. Not that that helped her very much. Just from the two times she had met him so far, she could easily see that Rip was a boy who was used to getting everything he wanted. Though she couldn't understand it, and she certainly couldn't explain it, what could she do now that he had made it plain and clear that what he wanted was _her_?

And, she thought, the panic even more pressing, what would she do when _Spindle_ found out?

Up ahead, nearer than she thought for all her running, Jess spied the old, familiar building in front of her. Relief washed over her like a wave at the beach. Home. Once she was inside, she knew, she would be safe. Just the idea that she might not be made her shiver.

When had she ever worried about being safe before?

She pounded up the four flights of stairs that separated the O'Connors' floor and the lobby, knowing she sounded like a carthorse running through the halls and not quite caring that she was being so improper. Pausing to straighten out her beige blouse, wincing when she remembered the cut and the tear, Jess tried to calm herself down for her guardians' sakes before she took a deep breath and pushed open the door marked 5A.

A quick glance around the darkened apartment revealed nothing. No cross Mrs. O'Connor, waiting with a lecture. No short, stout Mr. O'Connor with a disappointed shake of his head. They must have already turned in for the evening.

Jess sighed in relief, though she couldn't help but feel even guiltier than before. Because of their habit of going to bed shortly after the sun went down, Jess usually arrived home after a day of peddling both editions of the paper just in time to share the supper meal with her guardians. At least, on normal nights, she did.

But, she thought to herself with a sinking stomach, this hadn't been a normal night, had it?

Jess locked the door behind her. It wasn't something she often remembered to do but now she couldn't forget. Then, slipping off her shoes, she tiptoed through the small apartment. She didn't want to wake the O'Connors so, as carefully as she could, she padded in her stocking feet into the kitchen. There was a bowl of cooling stew set out at her normal place; it wasn't stone-cold and Jess figured Mrs. O'Connor must have waited until the last minute to set out some supper for her ward.

The sight of the food made the girl's stomach turn. She pushed it away gently. For the moment at least, she just wanted to think.

She held out her left hand, as if weighing an option. "Spindle," she said, murmuring to herself, "she told me today that she's been seeing Rip for two years now." She paused and held out her right hand. "Aye, but Rip seemed very keen on givin' his affection to me. Or Maria," she added with a slight frown. She wasn't sure who Rip's Maria could be but considering he told Jess that she could be her twin… she had a bad feeling that Maria was the key to this whole mess. She huffed and let both hands fall softly to the top of the old, battered kitchen table.

It didn't make matters any easier that Rip was both incredibly handsome and extremely charming in his way. Jess couldn't deny how flattered she was at the attention he was lavishing on her and if he were free, well… things might have been different. She'd never had a beau of her own before; at thirteen, it was time she started thinking about it. Her parents had been married at fifteen, so why wouldn't she?

Except, she knew, it was because Rip Divenize was _not_ free. He belonged to Spindle Scott and Jess could hear her new leader's voice as clear as day—

_The most important rule is this: another girl's spoken for is just that—spoken for. Especially Rip. Do you understand?_

—oh, yes. She understood.

Jess lifted her hands up again and rubbed them together, as if she was wiping them clean of everything that had happened that day. She made her decision.

"Tomorrow," she promised, "I'll go up to Spindle and tell her that I met Rip… and…"

Her voice trailed to a close there, followed by a soft exhale and a shake of her head. She knew she was fooling herself if she thought Spindle wouldn't get angry with her for her confession. And Rip, what did she know about him really? He seemed to think that she was suited for him but what if it was a joke? A gag? A way for him to feel as if he belonged in Queens now that he had left Harlem?

And what about her? Jess had worked too hard to be accepted into the Far Rockaway gang of newsgirls to have it all be spoiled by some boy.

There was nothing else for her to do. She wasn't going to tell Spindle just in case the older girl blamed Jess. But Rip… she would have to tell him. Which, Jess decided as she stood up from her seat and padded off to her bedroom to get washed up for the night, was exactly what she was going to do.

* * *

After spending the last hour staking out one particular corner of the Rockaway House's second floor bunkroom, there just weren't words for the way Spindle Scott was feeling. To say she was angry was putting it too mildly.

Rubbing roughly at a patch of dry skin on her forearm, strangely satisfied as the white skin burned pink, she settled on furious. That was a good one. Or maybe livid. Yeah… Spindle had been waiting for Rip to arrive for over an hour _and he still hadn't shown up_. Livid was just about right. Leaning back into Rip's pillow, she thought she might even go for murderous if he kept her waiting any longer.

Where the hell _was_ he?

One smudged kid, cowed and more than a little intimidated at the way Spindle had marched right into the lodging house (despite the rules against girls setting foot inside the lobby, let alone the upstairs)… in awe of the redhead, he pointed at the bunk Rip had claimed when Spindle demanded to know which was his before suddenly remembering that he was going to meet a couple of buddies for a pick-up game of marbles. He was gone without a word, quiet, just the way she liked it.

He wasn't the only one to wonder what Spindle was doing there. But most of the boys—at least, the ones who either knew Spindle's reputation or had gone up against her formidable temper at some point in the past—they tried to keep their gazes friendly and courteous and, most importantly, away from her in case she decided to take her obvious agitation out on them.

Rip's bunk was a bottom one, on the far end of the room. It was in a prime spot and even in her anger, Spindle had to be impressed with how quickly he'd made himself at home in Far Rockaway. Before his arrival at the beginning of the week that bunk had to have belonged to someone else and she wondered vaguely who; it was familiar. And then she remembered that her concern wasn't for who had slept in that bunk earlier but the young man it belonged to now—and who _Rip_ might be sleeping with.

To call Spindle a jealous creature would be an understatement. About five minutes after her arrival and the discovery that Rip wasn't waiting for her like he promised, her dark thoughts were already jumping to the worst sorts of conclusions. He wasn't there because he was with someone else, she was convinced of the fact. But who?

And, damn it, how could he have met up with that Jess Rhian creature when Spindle had purposely kept her busy all afternoon?

Her hands were antsy and she'd started poking holes in the edge of the thin sheet with the tips of her fingers without realizing she was doing it; when she did, she stopped, huffing in annoyance. The way she had positioned herself on Rip's bunk let her see the open doorway so that, when he arrived, she would be the first to know it. Except he still wasn't there yet and any patience she'd pretended to have had long since fled.

Spindle was on the verge of taking her blade out and cleaning underneath her nails—anything to feel the curve of its handle against her palm—when a shadow fell in front of her and for one split second, she thought it was Rip—

"Hey there, doll. Didn't anyone ever tell you that there ain't supposed to be any girlies up in the bunkrooms? Not that I'm complainin', heh."

—it wasn't.

Spindle glanced up, her lanky red hair falling into her face like a curtain. Peering through the strands, she caught sight of a tall, bulky figure of a young man leaning with the palms of his oversized hands rested up against the wooden base of the bunk above Rip's. He had shaggy sand-colored hair and small, dark, watery eyes that were looking her over as he smirked down on her. He thought he was suave; Spindle thought him an imbecile. Most of the other boys knew exactly how to treat her—not using the name _doll_ being a start—and only his cavalier attitude kept her interest long enough to keep from reaching for her blade first.

She didn't recognize him, that much was clear, and figured correctly that, like Rip, he was new to the lodging house. Despite her loyalty to Rip—exaggerated in even her own mind considering Spindle thought of loyalty and devotion as a one way street, one Rip needed to travel, not herself—Spindle had shared the bunks of quite a few of the older boys who lodged there. Far from satisfying her own sexual needs, the alliances she made with the newsboys had given her a big step in the direction of taking over the Girls' Home at the beginning of the year.

However, though she had no trouble admitting to laying with any of the boys—unless, of course, Rip was the one asking—her reputation as a loose girl with questionable morals was only second to her reputation as someone who shouldn't be made angry. And being called _doll_ made her very angry.

Spindle quirked her lips upwards in a mockery of a coy, charming smile before tucking her long hair behind her ears and rising up on her knees. "Are you talkin' to me?"

"I don't see another girlie 'round here, doll."

Her laugh was high-pitched and a beat too long. Some of the boys who knew better were already groaning; one, a fella called Teach who finished his dalliance with Spindle with a scar three inches long down his arm, had the mind to follow that first kid out the bunkroom door and did so with little hesitation. She pretended not to notice, her bright green eyes locked on the newcomer. "Well, in that case," she purred, leaning back and waving for him to come closer, maybe even climb into Rip's bunk with her.

His smile was goofy, more of a satisfied sort of smirk as he ducked his head and started to join Spindle on the bed. He only had eyes for her which meant that, as he leaned in and she reached slowly behind her back, he had no idea what Spindle was doing until she had, in one swift motion, flicked her blade open and pressed the point against his belly.

The boy immediately stopped breathing in an attempt to keep from getting stabbed.

Spindle never lost her grin. "Let me tell ya somethin'. You listenin'?"

He grunted, afraid to do anything more than that.

"Good. You look new. You new? Just nod your head."

The bulky boy nodded.

"I thought so," Spindle said softly. "Then you didn't know. Can't be helped, I guess. Let me fill you in: I hear you call me _doll_ one more time, I'm gonna stick this knife so far into your gut that I'll be able to pull it out from the other side by the point. You understand me?" She paused, taking a second to drink in the sweat that was beading up along his brow. "You can nod again."

He did.

Spindle pulled the knife back but, just in case he got any smart ideas, kept it open and in her right hand. With her left, she gave his chest a gentle push. Maybe his legs gave out under his bulk, maybe he was just desperate to get away from her blade… maybe her push wasn't as gentle as she thought and she sent him flying, but the next thing Spindle knew, the boy was lying on his back on the far side of Rip's bunk. He took in great big gulps of air as if his encounter with Spindle had starved him of it. She just yawned widely like a cat and then, stretching out languidly, resumed her position on Rip's bunk in order to continue waiting.

There wasn't that much longer left for her to wait.

Rip had a way of entering that was enviable to the other street boys. If he didn't want to be seen, he wasn't. It was as simple as that. He could slide into any room, his head down, his hands in his pockets, and no one looked twice his way; it was a habit he picked up out of necessity, just like knowing when to turn it off and make an entrance that captivated everyone's attention.

Right then he was lost in thought, distracted, wanting to be alone. He slipped into the bunkroom without anyone noticing him—though that could have very well been due to the scene that had concluded mere seconds before he arrived.

In fact, Rip himself didn't notice anyone either until he made for his new bunk and almost stepped on Spindle's latest victim. He paused and nudged the other boy in the side with the tip of his shoe. "Danger? Are you sleeping on the floor now?"

"Man alive!" sneered Spindle, her thin lip curling though her eyes flashed angrily at the way Rip's attention strayed to the oaf on the floor rather than straight to her. "Don't tell me they call this idiot _Danger_?" She laughed wryly. "Somehow I don't think the name fits."

Rip froze for a fraction of a second at the sound of her voice, not enough that the other boys in the House would notice, but she did. Before she could say anything about that, though, he caught himself and lifted his gaze to meet hers. The ends of his mouth were quirked upward in a charming smile that didn't quite match the rest of his expression.

"Spindle? What are you doing here?"

The proud newsgirl drew in one great big breath, flinching as if she'd been slapped. "What do you mean? _You_ told me to meet you here."

"I did?" Rip pursed his lips. He remembered, of course he did, but he wasn't about to let Spindle get away with expecting him. Not now, not ever. "That's right… I seem to remember that I did. I hope you weren't waiting for me long."

"Long enough," she snapped out, flushing angrily at his condescending tone. "Where have you been?"

Whether or not he recognized the bitter jealousy in her voice, Rip refused to rise to her bait. He could hear that the loud ruckus of thirty-odd newsboys settling in for the night had faded suspiciously into the sounds of thirty-odd newsboys trying not to get caught eavesdropping and he didn't want to give them a show. After being a newsie these last two years, no one knew better than Rip Divenize that newsboys gossiped just as bad as housewives, if not _worse_.

He lowered his voice; he gave his shoulders a noncommittal shrug. "I lost track of the time, I think. I left some of the boys sometime during the afternoon in order to look around on my own, Spindle. I ended up down by the shore, watching the waves roll in and out. It was peaceful."

"Peaceful?" mimicked Spindle. Her dark green eyes narrowed in suspicion. "By yourself, Rip? Are you sure you weren't with someone else?"

And that's when something deep inside of Rip snapped again. His hold on his temper was tenuous at the best of times; when Spindle got too nosy for her own good, staying calm was like fighting a losing battle. Sometimes he couldn't understand why he bothered staying with her. Sure, she was up for a good time whenever Rip wanted her, and he couldn't fault her for being loyal but she wasn't what he _needed_.

Still, Rip was growing tired of Spindle's jealous nature. He hadn't been able to forget the time she attacked one of Cecilia's girls in his name and Aisling was just another prostitute working the sheets. This time he wouldn't even give her the chance to discover his feelings for the new girl. Spindle would lose control and then he would lose Jessa. No… he would have to make sure she was his secret, closely guarded and never revealed. He just hoped he hadn't already given too much away.

Taking another moment to settle his nerves, to keep Spindle from figuring out how close her guess really was, Rip rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I don't see why you're so worried but… yes, I was all alone. You trust me, don't you?"

Every single person in that bunkroom could tell that the answer _no_ was on the tip of her tongue. She longed to throw it back at him but she wouldn't—as much as anyone could, Spindle knew Rip, she knew his mannerisms and his tone and when he was only one wrong step away from losing his temper.

Ever since she learned what he was capable of, ever since he confessed to her of his murderous past, deep down she'd been a little bit frightened of him. Rip lived his life close to the edge; one push and he could succumb to his dark nature again. She tried to fool herself that Rip loved her, that he would never hurt her… he was her soul mate, she loved him with every ounce of her being… which was why, without more than a moment's hesitation, she said, "'Course I do."

"Then I trust that, next time I'm late, I won't have to answer to you again. If _you_ really trust _me_."

"Wha—oh, no," Spindle said, marveling at how masterfully he had manipulated her, "I guess not." Unless, she added to herself, she caught him making eyes at one of her girls again. Then all bets were off.

Rip reached out and gripped Spindle's upper arm lightly. Thinking he was joining her on the bunk, Spindle leaned in for a kiss, making a small disappointed sound in the back of her throat when her lips landed against his cheek. "Rip, wh—" He handled her a little rougher than was necessary, giving her arm a tug until she realized what he was doing and climbed out of the bunk herself. "What's goin' on?"

"I'm tired, Spindle. I'm going to sleep," he said flatly. There was no emotion in his voice and his accent was a little more noticeable than before.

Spindle knew from past experience that that was never a good sign—Rip was desperate to pass as a Native and very rarely gave anyone the opportunity to question his ancestry. Once his Italian accent started to slip, she knew she'd already pushed her luck as far as it would go.

She didn't argue. Fluffing her hair, her head held high as if it was her decision to leave and not his, Spindle said loftily, "I'll be back tomorrow then. Finish sellin' early, Rip. I'll make tonight up to you."

"Good _night_ , Spindle."

He watched her as she left, boring holes into her back as she went. Spindle purposely used her knee to bump into Danger's shoulder, her throaty laughter echoing around the bunkroom even after she was gone. Rip just shook his head and offered the other boy a hand up. It was petty actions like that, kicking a fella when he was already down, that was why he could never love her. He could use her, he could lay with her, he could even be partial to her company at times but love…

The only girl he had ever really loved was Maria and she was gone now, gone where he could never reach her again. But the spirit of Maria Divenize had been looking out for her brother, convincing him to trade Harlem for Queens and no sooner had he arrived that he found Jessa Rhian. Jessa, his dead sister's twin who, according to one of the boys, was all of thirteen years old—the exact age Maria had been when she was killed.

What luck! It was as if no time had passed at all….

Except, of course, Rip was two years older, hardened, bitter, a murderer himself. There wasn't much he wouldn't do to get his sister back—killing her killer had been the beginning—and now that he found Jessa… there wasn't anything he wouldn't do to make her his, whether she wanted him to or not.

Rather than answer to the questioning gazes that belonged to the other boys, Rip turned his back on them and slipped easily into his bunk, trying not to notice that the sheets were still warm from Spindle's heat. He rolled on his side, presenting his back to the others. That seemed to break the spell. As Rip closed his eyes, blocking out the oil lamp light that illuminated the room, he heard the muffles and the whispers and the teasing laughs as the bunkroom filled up with noise. Without an entertaining argument to keep them occupied, the other lodgers started to get ready for a good night's sleep.

It was then and only then that Rip was able to turn his thoughts back to the girl he had met that afternoon. Her striking resemblance to Maria aside, there was just something about her that marked her as different from any of the other girls he had known before and it wasn't only because she hadn't shown him even the smallest amount of interest; that just made it that much more of a challenge for Rip.

No, it was the wholeness in her. The good… Jessa radiated innocence and Rip wanted it. He wanted to have it.

He would take it from her if he had to.

Come tomorrow, he promised himself, he would _finally_ know the feel of a virgin's touch.

* * *

**Author's Note** : Why, yes, I'm still proud of myself for incorporating the title of Rip's stand-alone story in this one. And Spindle's scene with Danger is probably my favorite part of this revisal so far.

(Don't mind me if I make a comment like that with every new chapter. I'm having a ball with this!)

– _stress, 03.09.13_


	4. A rip? A tear

  
_Obsession: Cuts like a Knife_   


initial posting: 08.23.06  
revised: 04.02.13

* * *

It was still dark out when Rip awoke from a fitful sleep, complete with visions of Maria running through his dreams.

He chased his sister as he always chased her, marveling when he amazingly caught up with her; it was an old dream and the chase rarely ended. She laughed and teased him as they ran but, as he drew closer to her, he heard that she spoke with an Irish brogue that nearly jerked him awake. Her dark, glossy curls faded to a sandy brown as he held onto her arm. The blue eyes he knew so well darkened to an unfamiliar greenish gleam, wide and fearful and staring. She started to scream and he woke up in time to swallow his own.

And then he remembered: _Jessa_. Rip closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against them. Her terrified image seemed seared on the inside of his eyelids.

His heart thumped loudly against his chest. He moved one hand to his throat and played with the chain that settled there. The weight of Maria's golden cross soothed the savage beast, the flimsy metal worn and familiar between his forefinger and his thumb.

Soon, he thought. Soon he would be with her again.

Rip got up slowly, habit making him reach out to make sure he was lying alone in his bunk. When he was sure he was, that Spindle—or anyone else—hadn't climbed into his bed while he was dreaming, he climbed out of it himself. Since he slept in his clothes he didn't have to waste time dressing. A quick splash at the water pump, a quick tug with his comb through his thick black hair, purposely and precisely parting it on the left as usual, and he was set and ready to go.

He slipped out through the bunkroom door as easily as he had entered through it last night. Before any of the other lodgers had even woken up, Rip Divenize was already on his way down to the distribution center. If luck went his way, he could be standing outside the gate, ready and waiting for when Jessa arrived; it would be even better if he managed to pull that off without running into Spindle first. If luck went his way.

And if it didn't...

It didn't.

Like him, it seemed Jessa was also an early riser. She was one of the first girls to arrive at the distribution center, scampering up the plank and getting into line without once looking his way. Rip was standing at the far gate, his papers tucked under his boot for safe-keeping as he waited, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette with such ferocity that it was gone in a handful of drags. He had just tossed the ends to the ground, leaving them to smolder and burn in the dirt, when Jessa drew up to the window and, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Spindle storming over to the back of the line.

She didn't wait there. None of her girls complained and the few fellas who said anything about the way she went straight to the front stopped when Spindle glanced over her shoulder, throwing murderous gazes back at them. She stalked the length of the gangway with her head held high but her eyes were darting to and fro, searching for something—or, he thought with a barely masked scowl, some _one_.

Because old habits die hard, Rip disappeared into the crowd like a phantom without a second thought, lifting his papers up to his shoulder so that his face was hidden away from prying eyes. He couldn't… he _wouldn't_ risk revealing his intentions with Spindle so near. Jessa would have to wait, he decided bitterly without a single glance back at either of the two girls. And then he was gone.

Neither Spindle nor Jess saw him go. Jess had just finished buying her slim stack of papers off of the portly, old man at the window. Spindle stood behind her, her heated gaze locked on the back of Jess's head. She had made her way to the front and, as soon as the younger girl was done, took her place. Throwing her quarter at the seller, she snatched up her papers and, most unlike her, didn't even stop to count them. Moving fast as a lightning strike, she reached Jess Rhian before the girl had even finished going down the last step.

With a grip like a claw, Spindle caught her by the shoulder. Jess whirled around, a skittish thing, and gasped out: "Oh... oh! Hello, Spindle. Mornin'." She gulped and tried to cover it up with a high-pitched titter of a laugh. "I didn't expect to see you so early again."

Spindle grinned a tiger's grin, predatory and secretly amused. The girl was nervous. Good, she thought. Nervous people don't know when to keep their mouths shut.

"Say," she purred, pulling on Jess's arm in order to lead her a little further away from the crowd, "you haven't seen Rip this morning, have ya, Jess? Talked to him maybe?"

Jess shook her head, nearly tripping over her feet as Spindle shuffled her off. She waited until they had stopped before answering, "No… not today. Not this morning."

But the real answer was there, written plainly on her face, and Spindle had to refrain from giving the girl a shake. Wasn't lying the first thing a newsie learned when they went out to sell the headlines the hack Sun writers came up with? She could see the truth in the panicked expression Jess couldn't quite hide: she might not have seen Rip that morning, but she'd certainly exchanged words with him at some point. But when?

Spindle's pulse started to pound when she remembered Rip's lateness last night.

 _That_ 's when.

Her grip tightened, Jess winced, and Spindle went on as if she hadn't. "Silly me," she said lightly, though there was a hard edge to her predator's smile, "one of my girls told me that if I was lookin' for him, I should ask you first. I wonder why that is."

"I don't know. That's… that's certainly silly, all right."

"Stories, Jess, I hear tons of 'em. Sometimes I don't know what to believe anymore."

Jess gulped again and tried to move her arm so that it didn't pinch so bad. It didn't work. Spindle's hold was unbreakable.

"You can believe me," she said, nearly panting from… from what? Fear? Pain? Admiration? Spindle couldn't tell. Any of the three would've sufficed. The younger girl offered a weak grin. "I fancy my tongue too much to be caught lyin' to ya."

If Spindle had it her way, she'd take out her blade and use it on the girl for such a flippant remark. But she didn't. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, she made a great display of looking around the crowd. There was no sign of Rip which surprised her slightly since she was damn near certain that this was the girl he was making eyes at. And that's when she wondered if the reason Rip was eerily missing—because she knew him and he should have already been there, him hating being the last to buy papers the way he did—was because _she_ was there.

She let go of Jess's arm and pushed it away from her a little more calmly than she wanted to; the way she was feeling, she wouldn't have been satisfied with anything less than ripping it off.

"I guess it's up to me to keep on lookin' for him," she said, noting the flash of relief on Jess's face. Suddenly, to Spindle, erasing that flash was the most important thing in the world. "But," she added slyly, "if you're not sellin' with anyone else, you can partner up with me for the evening pape."

The relief was gone, replaced just as quickly with another panicked glint that Jess barely managed to hide. Spindle was mildly impressed. This one learned fast.

"Of course," Jess told her, hoping it was the right response. She didn't normally sell both editions but something told her that no was definitely the wrong answer. "I'd be honored."

"Yeah, well, just make sure you're at the distribution center when I get there," was all Spindle said in reply. "Five o'clock. Just be _there_."

* * *

Years ago, back during her span in Manhattan and Harlem, long before she dreamed of the gang of girls she'd lord it over in Far Rockaway, Spindle Scott earned a reputation for being a hothead. Tempestuous. Impulsive. And she was all of those things, she wouldn't deny it. But a hard life, being raised in an orphanage, growing up in a Harlem brothel and now, working the streets in the morning with a paper rather than working the nights in some cheap bastard's bed… it had taught her to be careful. Alert. Paranoid.

And because Spindle was, at her very core, very much a malicious, suspicious creature, she had been forced to learn to wait. To watch. To bide her time until, like a rattlesnake, she attacked.

If Jess had been paying close attention to the heavy silence that seemed to follow her and Spindle around, it just might have been possible to make out the near-silent rattle on the air.

But that was the thing—Jess _wasn't_ paying attention. She'd done just what Spindle asked and met her at the distribution center for the evening edition. Part of her hoped that Rip would be there when she arrived if only because then Spindle could latch onto him, but he wasn't and, before long, Spindle was. So with a deep breath and a silent prayer to the Lord above, Jess went off with Spindle when all her instincts were telling her to go home to the O'Connors for supper.

She had decided against telling Spindle anything about yesterday for one important reason: because she was absolutely terrified. The threat of Spindle's temper and her wicked sharp blade were constantly on her mind, a fact that was making the young Irish girl think she was going mad.

Though she half expected to run into Rip Divenize again and prayed she wouldn't, on more than one occasion while she was selling her papers that morning, Jess could've sworn she caught a glimpse of the redhead far behind her, sometimes when she was turning corners or when she paused to get a read for where she was. It was always a quick glance, enough that she couldn't be sure, and there was never any sign of Spindle when she turned back for a second look. So Jess chided herself because, well, didn't Spindle have better things to do than follow her around Far Rockaway?

The answer to that was a big and resounding _no_.

Spindle started off that morning in search of Rip but very quickly realized that her search was pointless. This was only his third day in Far Rockaway. Except for his trip to the beach, where else could he go? Anywhere, that's where. And Spindle had a better chance of getting the mayor to give her the key to the city than stumble upon Rip when he was wandering around on his own.

But Jess... Jess, she could find. If she wasn't with Grace Delaney, there was a small radius of where she would go. It didn't take her too long to pick up on Jess's trail and tail it. She didn't have to go after Rip because, if her suspicions were founded, she could be damn sure that where there was smoke, there's fire—

"Mornin' sales were weak," Spindle announced after awhile, drawing Jess out of her thoughts. "Barely made enough for lodgin' fare and tonight don't seem to be much better. What about you?"

"I did fair enough," Jess said modestly. In an attempt to leave the distribution center as quickly as she could, she only bought twenty papers and sold all of them before stopping at home for some stew and a heartfelt apology to Mrs. O'Connor. It wasn't as much as she normally peddled when she partnered with Grace but her heart just wasn't in it.

 _Mio cuore_... my heart, Rip had called her. Jess shivered.

Spindle noticed. She raised her eyebrows. "Yeah? Where've you been sellin'?"

Having followed the girl—though she wasn't about to admit _that_ —she already knew the answer, but Spindle wanted to hear it for herself. She hadn't expected to have to work as hard as she had in order to find Jess and her morning sales suffered some for her effort.

"I went down by Delaney's corner today but didn't see you there. That was surprisin' to me," Spindle continued. "You've got a habit of always trottin' behind her like some kind of stray pup. Seems different, you not bein' there. I don't like different, Jess."

Spindle's comment had a barb attached to it: though she was right, it still stung. As for the ending, all the younger girl hear was I don't like Jess.

"That's Grace's spot," she said quietly. "Now that you've given me your blessin' to sell, I thought I'd find my own."

Which was true. But it was also true that Jess couldn't bring herself to face Grace that morning. She knew her old friend would want to congratulate her on finally being accepted into Spindle's gang but, just then, Jess wasn't so sure that was a good thing. With Grace, Jess was an open book—she would be able to read that something wasn't entirely right as if it were written clearly on her forehead.

And what if she was making a big deal out of nothing? Better to stick with herself until she was sure...

"Jess? Jess... hey! You got marbles in your ear or somethin'?"

Jess gave her head a clearing shake. She heard Spindle calling her name, all but spitting it out, but it took a few seconds to register. She cringed apologetically. "Aye? You were talkin' to me?"

"A waste of breath, I guess." Spindle sniffed. "And I said there's something wrong with your shirt. You know that?"

"Oh?" Jess's hand strayed to her upper arm. It was the same blouse she had worn the day before, the same blouse that was damaged when she scraped her arm on the brick wall. With so much on her mind, she had forgotten it had torn. "Oh, yes. This."

"What is it?" _Rattle... rattle_. She inched closer, tucking a strand of her red hair behind her ear. "Don't tell me—a _rip_?"

"A tear," corrected Jess quickly. A little too quickly.

Spindle slapped Jess's hand away, then ran one of her ink-stained fingers over the material, purposely widening the hole in the sleeve.

"Shoddy work," she sneered. "You should get yourself a better tailor."

Jess nodded because she didn't trust herself to say anything. In her opinion, there was no finer seamstress in all of Far Rockaway than Mrs. O'Connor and she resented being told her guardian's work was anything less than remarkable. But she had been in enough quarrels with Grace to know when another girl is just looking to pick a fight—and Spindle wasn't someone she wanted to fight with.

And not only because she wanted to continue selling papers in town...

"Make sure to get that mended," Spindle told her when Jess kept quiet. The rattle faded into silence as Spindle drew even closer to the younger girl, poised to strike at last. "You want to look your best." A hiss echoed on that last word. "I'm sure there's someone you want to look real good for, yeah? Some fella you're tryin' to impress?"

Jess was saved from having to answer when a bell suddenly began to toll. There was an old, stone church up ahead with a clock tower that announced the time. Most people in Queens ignored the tolls, too used to them to notice anymore, but they tolled in the background and, subconsciously almost, Spindle counted.

_One… two… three… four… five… six… seven... eight._

"It's eight," she said, then swore under her breath.

Jess, who also heard the tolls, just sighed. Eight o'clock already. When she visited with Mrs. O'Connor for lunch, she promised she would home no later than seven. She was late. Again.

Whether Spindle steered her this way on purpose or not, the two of them were pointed in the same direction as the one Jess had taken the night before. With half-hearted goodbyes, they separated—Spindle only hesitating for a few seconds to see what Jess would do first—and started for their respective destinations: home for Jess, while Spindle was heading towards Rip's bed.

Spindle took the same path as last night. Not Jess.

It wasn't really a conscious decision. With all of Far Rockaway before him, why would Rip be waiting at that same corner? But because Jess had promised herself that she would confront him the next time they met, she turned left instead of right, anything to avoid the last place she had seen him.

Which, of course, meant that her shortcut quickly turned into a long-cut. She went down the wrong street and was surprised to find herself in front of an unfamiliar butcher's shop. Confused and feeling foolish (and only half-checking that no one was lurking somewhere behind her), Jess double-backed and became a little reckless in her pursuit to get home without running into anyone she knew.

Though it would take her through a more questionable part of town, Jess conjured up one of Grace's tried and true shortcuts. And, while this was the first time she went that way without Grace, she decided it was worth the risk. Otherwise she could already hear Mrs. O'Connor's disappointment.

It was growing darker, leaving Jess to squint to see where she was going. The air smelled of smoke and dirt. More than half of the buildings that crowded the street were abandoned; those still occupied had a wilted, careworn appearance. Garbage littered the cobbles. Only one lamp was lit, off in the distance.

Jess knew she made a mistake coming this way but there was no turning back. She hurried on.

Suddenly there came a loud thump, so quick and so unexpected that Jess let out a small shriek of surprise and stopped walking. Before she could even wonder what had caused the noise, something came darting out of the dusky gloom, aiming straight for her legs. THis time she didn't even squeal.

Jess couldn't tell for sure the exact color of its coat except that it was dark, but the gleaming green eyes stuck out at her as the creature drew up short, obviously afraid. It was a cat, undersized and underfed; it was hardly bigger than a kitten, though its torn ear and the scars on its patchy back showed its hard life, no matter how old. Its fur stood on end as it glared up at the girl. It looked as if it hadn't expected to find her there and didn't know what to do now that it had.

All thoughts of anything else—of Spindle and Rip, of being late, of going the long way around—flew out of her head when she saw the cat. It looked so frightened, there wasn't any room for Jess to be scared of it, or anything.

Her immediate reaction was to bend her knees slightly and reach down for it. The cat didn't like that. It reared back, its ears flat against its mis-shapened head as it started to hiss and spit. Jess moved away slowly, though she didn't take her eyes off of it. Her heart went out for the poor thing.

That was when a second thump sounded, just off to her right and near enough to the cat that the sound spooked it. She had just enough time to recognize what had made that thumping noise before the cat spun around and ran back the way it came.

Which, Jess realized, was right where someone stood throwing stones at the creature.

She didn't even think. In an instant, Jess went hurrying after it, intent on either saving it or scolding whoever thought it was good fun to terrorize a helpless alley cat.

The cat was fast but the street was empty, leaving Jess little to be distracted by. She watched as it darted back and headed straight for the corner one block up. It turned sharply and disappeared, and while that certainly slowed Jess down, it didn't stop her.

What did stop her was the street the corner turned off onto: it was narrow and dark—too dark to see the cat, or whoever else might have been out there. Part of her wanted to rescue the poor thing, but the rest of her knew what happened to innocent girls who strayed down dark paths when they were alone. Besides, it was late and she didn't want to miss Mrs. O'Connor's supper two nights running. She had to go.

Jess had taken three steps past the side street when she heard the cat's cry. It sent chills up her spine, the long drawn-out howl, and made her mind up for her.

She went in after the cat.


	5. Interlude -- Wren Monroe

Wren Monroe loved to read.

It wasn't something she shared with many people. Most of the others in the Girls' Home only read the papers they peddled, and that was if they couldn't get someone else to tell them what the headlines were first. Wren's closest companion, a girl called Irish Murphy, was proud of the fact that she could barely pick out her name yet could sell three hundred a week, easy.

Not Wren.

She devoured books like they were a pastrami on rye sandwich with extra mustard. Anything she could get her hands on she would read because, lost between the pages of a book, she didn't have to be an orphaned newsgirl trying to survive in Queens. She could _be_ a queen. She could be _anyone_ at all.

If she did well enough in the morning, Wren liked to blow off any evening sales in favor of finding a nice quiet place to sit down and enjoy herself. A book she smuggled under her oversized blouse, a hunk of bread in case she got peckish and a few hours left until curfew—she was all set.

Except, for once, her book held little interest. It was a dog-eared dime store novel that she had rescued from an ash barrel the summer before. Wren had lost track of how many times she had leafed through its dusty pages but it was her favorite, and always something to look forward to after a long day of selling. Except, not so soon after Wren wrapped her loose blanket around her and sat back against the lamppost to read, something quite peculiar caught her eye instead. Or, rather, her _ear_ —

The thump came first. Once, then twice, a pause that seemed to last a few minutes, then one thump, and another. She ignored it for as long as she could (which wasn't very long) before she dared a peek over to see what was making that racket. It was never a good idea to draw attention to herself when she was alone in this part of town but, well, curiosity killed the cat.

There was a boy about a block away, throwing stones. At first she thought he was aiming at the remaining windows in the grim, soot-covered building opposite of him and smugly decided he was a lousy shot since every one of his rocks fell short. He was tall and slim, with dark hair and olive-colored skin. That alone was unsual—it wasn't the sort of coloring you found in Queens. In fact, Wren had only ever seen one fella like that and that was only yesterday.

But if that was who she thought it was, what was he doing without Spindle? After her warnings and her boastings, none of the Far Rockaway girls doubted for a minute that Spindle would leave Rip Divenize alone long enough for any of them to make a pass at him. This fella was on his own. It had to be someone else.

Except, he wasn't really on his own. It took Wren a second or two—and for him to throw another stone—for her to realize what exactly he was doing... and that was because she couldn't quite believe it herself.

Down at his feet there was a dirty, banged-up alley cat that mewed loudly enough for Wren to hear it. When he threw his rock in front of him and have the cat a nudge in the side with the tip of his boto, the cat ran after it as if it were playing fetch. It ran after the rock, sniffed at it a few times, even prodded it with its paw, but when he lobbed another pebble in that direction, the cat ran back where, Wren saw, there was a tiny sliver of meat waiting at the boy's feet. And though the cat gobbled it up, it wasn't enough and it begged until the boy tossed another rock and it started over again.

Their eyes locked once, after he threw another stone and Wren couldn't stop herself from watching what was going on. They met again, moments later, when Wren tried to get a better look to see if he was Spindle's Rip and, likewise, he was gauging whether or not she was worth his attention. He must have decided not because, consumed in his queer work, he never looked back her way again.

He played his game for about an hour until the cat was so starved for a piece of food that it performed its trick seamlessly, running at the first rock and trotting back at the second. It was one of the most amazing things Wren had ever seen—and she had once seen a bearded lady at a sideshow!—though she had to admit she couldn't see the point in training a mangy alley cat anything. Once its belly was full, who's to say it would even stick around? How long could he keep it going?

So, though he lost interest in her pretty quickly, Wren would glance up from her book every few minutes and watch his progress curiously. She was safe, knowing that her makeshift disguise kept him from recognizing her—even if she wasn't sure who he was.

Wren had learned early on in her life that there were plenty out there who didn't think it was right, seeing a girl one her own reading. There had been teases and jeers and, on one memorable occasion, a neighborhood bully who would steal her books and rip them at the binding until a single, well-placed kick from Wren taught him a lesson he wouldn't forget in a hurry.

Still, it seemed a safer bet overall if she kept her hobby to herself. She didn't dare take out a book at the Girls' Home and reading when she was out on the busy streets only invited nasty comments and the urge to point her toes. But there were a few empty alleys, secluded side streets and nearby nooks in Far Rockaway that allowed her peace and quiet. Since they all happened to be found in the seedier parts of town, a disguise became necessary.

It wasn't much. An old, moldy, moth-eaten blanket she nicked from the bunkroom plus some torn up rags made from clothes that either didn't fit any of the girls anymore or were too worn through. If she wore a hood instead of a hat and arranged her blanket and rags around her artfully, she wasn't Wren Monroe any longer—she was just another faceless beggar woman on the streets. She kept her head down and her book purposefully hidden and, if anyone actually happened to pass by this vacant way, they never looked twice at her.

Except this boy had. But he didn't look three times.

The sun was slowly dipping behind the rundown tenements and abanonded buildings but Wren had the foresight to make her nest right beneath the only working streetlamp. When the boy suddenly vanished inside the dusk-filled side steet, she was perfectly positioned to notice what happened next.

It wasn't that she was spying. Not really. She thought it strange that he seemed to disappear but that wasn't so surprising; since she'd been sitting there, everything this stranger had done was strange. She looked over at him when he re-appeared as quickly as he had gone and watched as he threw another rock.

And, just like every time before, the mangy cat ran after it.

A small shriek pierced the air, startling Wren and making her drop her book; she had been staring blankly at her page and hardly realized it when it fell. Growing up an orphan of the streets, nothing screamed bad news to Wren like a scream. She snuggled deep inside of her blanket, wary and alert in case she found cause to shriek, too.

The boy barely moved. It seemed as if he had expected the shriek and, taking it as a cue, threw one last rock. Wren followed the arc of his toss and by the time it rattled against the cobblestones, he was gone again.

A few curious seconds passed before the cat came dashing back, followed by a petite figure whose skirt billowed out behind her as she chased it. Wren recognized her easily and let out a soft exhale. She had seen this girl down at the distribution in the same blouse and high-waisted skirt only that morning, and the mane of wild curls was one she knew well. Jess Rhian. Harmless.

While they weren't exactly pals, Wren had a soft spot for her. The two shared a joy of reading and, only this past winter, Jess gave Wren a copy of last year's almanac. Since it was outdated, Jess's family had no need for it any longer but it was something for Wren to peruse; even better, when she was done it made for great kindling to keep warm at night. When some of the other girls poked fun at Jess for being so frilly and not being a real newsgirl, Wren always sided with Grace Delaney.

She was just wondering if she should shrug off her disguise and say hello when Jess paused in front of the opening that led to the darkened side street. But she didn't linger long and, before Wren had rose up from the ground, Jess entered the alleyway after the cat.

Into the alleyway where, unless Wren was mistaken or he could scale the barrels and boxes and garbage to break thrrough the other side, a dark-haired young man was waiting for her.

And she had to admit: something about this seemed either very coincidental or very staged. She thought of the rocks and the cat and Jess's foolish abandon in chasing after them both and went with staged. Wren couldn't understand it, though. Since when did Jess arrange to meet strangers in the rundown part of town without even Grace as protection? Unless she didn't _need_ protection...

Just then Wren heard three things in rapid succession that managed to answer one question for her, while opening up a whole field of others:

A high-pitched yowl came first.

Another shriek, quickly muffled.

And then—

" _Rip_?"

As Wren congratulated herself on at least guessing the identity of the stranger right, the cat suddenly ran back out of the alleyway, disappearing in the setting night as if it couldn't wait to be away from that place

No one came out after it.

For a heartbeat, Wren was tempted to go in after Jess. But she didn't.

Biting down on her bottom lip, she was suddenly reminded of the odd display at the distribution center the morning before, of Rip Divenize's arrival, the attention he showed towards Jess Rhian and Spindle's jealousy over it. She and Irish had been standing close enough to the leader to overhear her heated exchange with Rip and, while Irish was quick to forget it, it stuck with Wren. When Spindle returned to the Girls' Home last night in a foul temper and locked herself in one of the quarantine rooms, and the rumor ran that her fella had something to do with it, Wren was mildly curious.

Now, though... now that she saw something so intriguing and so strange... now she _had_ to know what was going on.

She settled down in her blanket to wait. Her book sat at her side, entirely forgotten.


	6. solo a me

**Disclaimer:** Most of the characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

 **Warnings** : This chapter depicts a non-consensual situation. Trigger warnings for sexual assault, mild violence and implied rape. Much of the scene is left to the reader's imagination, but I want to give fair warning. Nothing graphic is depicted; however, please use your own judgement before continuing.

* * *

_****_

_**Obsession: Cuts like a Knife**_

* * *

The alley was darker than it first appeared; it wasn't a side street so much as a dead end. Something blocked the exit at the far reach of the narrow tunnel, leaving nothing but shadows and the faint wisps of a dying sunset to break up the gloom.

Jess entered tentatively, peering down at the ground as she looked for the cat. Glass crackled underfoot and she held her breath, pausing if only to make sure that she was the one who made that noise. The air was still and quiet. There was no sign of the alley cat. It was if she was entirely alone. She shivered.

But that didn't stop her. She knew that the poor thing had gone this way and couldn't see how it could have escaped out through the opposite end. It had to be hiding scared somewhere and, stubbornly, Jess decided she hadn't followed it all this way to turn back now.

"Here puss," she cooed, hoping it would be soothed by her soft voice and coaxed out into the open. "Here kitty, kitty. I'm not gonna hurt you—"

_Mrowr!_

Jess jumped, startled.

"It's okay, Jessa."  _Jase-a._ "I have him here."

Apart from the cat, the alley was supposed to be empty. The yowl she could explain but a voice... but  _that_ voice... was more than enough to spook her when she thought she was by herself. A shriek of fright escaped without warning; it didn't last long. Jess clamped her mouth shut when she recognized the strange lilt and the sure manner of who had spoken.

" _Rip_?" she asked, probably louder than she meant to. Though her heart was beating a mile a minute, she took a deep breath and whispered, "Is that you? Where... I'm not seein' you."

She squinted and could barely make out a shadow separating itself from the blackness at the end of the alley. As he walked towards her, indescribable features became a sharp jaw and a cocky smile and a pair of icy blue eyes that chilled her to the bone. In his arms he held a trembling ball of fleas and fur who didn't seem too pleased with the arrangement, but sensed that it was better not to do anything about it.

The cat let out a plaintive mew, its eyes wide and nearly all black in fright. Jess ached to help it but she didn't know what she should do. And, somewhere deep down, she worried that she might be the one who really needed the help.

"What a good cat, yes?" Rip scratched the underside of the cat's chin and, to Jess's amazement, managed to do so without the alley cat fighting back. "I'd say he's earned a little treat."

Holding tightly to the animal, Rip reached into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out a damp, wrinkled piece of old newsprint. He shook his hand and, like magic, the scrap fell away, fluttering to the dirt, leaving the mangled hunk of a fish head clasped loosely in his free hand.

In one quick movement, Rip threw the fish just past Jess and tossed the cat after it. It hissed and spat, even swatting angrily at the hem of Jess's skirt twice, before grabbing the fish head between its fangs and dashing back out onto the main road.

Jess watched it go, still strangely paralyzed. Her heart was pounding, her fear of confrontation and being alone with Spindle's Rip all-consuming, and she wondered if she should follow the cat's lead and turn back the way she came.

And then Rip spoke again, and there was just something so hypnotic about his soft voice, it positively  _ensnared_ her—

"Mm, Jessa... tell me, do you believe in fate?"

It took her a moment to find her voice again. When she did, it came out as little more than a squeak:

"Fate?"

He nodded. " _Sì_...yes. Fate. That certain things were meant to happen, meant to be."

Wiping his hands against the side of his pants, he moved towards Jess. Rip offered her his hand but she clasped hers in front of her belly, a clear refusal. He let it slide.

"Let's sit down, Jessa. Stretch out your legs. Rest with me while we talk. You look tired."

Rip tried to ignore the truth that she looked absolutely terrified. Not wanting to spook her any more than he had, he stopped moving closer to her; instead, he tried to encourage him to come to him. His hand was still outstretched so he gestured at the dirt-packed floor.

Jess simply shook her head.

"No, thank you." The squeak was gone, replaced by a polite trill that would have made Mrs. O'Connor proud. "I think I'll stay standin'."

Rip's certainty that she'd fall prey to his charms so easily faded away. He pursed his lips, suddenly pensive.

"Standing… yes." His voice went soft. A murmur. It took a second for her to realize that Rip wasn't quite speaking to her when he said that. "Yes, it can be done on the feet. If it must."

She didn't know what he meant and decided that she didn't want to. Clearing her throat, she took one slow step backwards, shifting her weight carefully so that it wasn't so obvious that she was retreating. Rip was watching her curiously, a hunger in his eyes that frightened her more than the darkness.

"I should be going. I just wanted to check on the cat and it seems to be fine, so... good night, Rip."

" _Aspetta_." He realized that he'd let slip an Italian command and quickly covered it up with an inviting laugh. "Look, it's past suppertime. You're already late... you can spend a few more minutes with me."

Rip had a lazy, mocking smile that did a good enough job masking his intensity and his desire. His chuckle had a depth to it that made her stomach quiver nervously. Jess had all of his attention again; she could feel herself quailing underneath the weight of it. He liked the way she wore her emotions right on her face for him to see. That way he knew when he guessed correctly.

Like he did just then.

"What's the matter?" he teased. Edging a few steps nearer to her, he purposely kept his tone light. "Afraid you might enjoy yourself?"

"It's not that."

"Then what is it? I like you." He brushed the side of his hand against hers, taking heart when all Jess did was unclasp her hands and let them rest against her thighs. "I like your company," he added. Rip leaned in closer. She didn't move away from him. "Don't you like me?"

Jess lowered her gaze to her feet. The front of her shoes were coated with the same dust that covered the ground but Rip's shoes—old and worn but strangely well-cared for—were polished and clean.

"Jessa?"

He was waiting for her answer.

"We've just met," she mumbled.

"So you've said. That's tough for me to believe. It seems like I've known you my entire life."

She lifted her head, surprised to find that he was staring at her unblinkingly.

"I bet you never expected to see me here," Rip said when he caught her eye.

"It's good…" Jess faltered, then stopped speaking. His stare was making so uncomfortable that she was speaking without thinking. But then she remembered where she was and who she was with and what she promised herself last night while sitting in the O'Connor's kitchen.

She tried again. "I mean, it's nice to see you. I was hoping I might—"

"Mm?" Rip placed his hand on her cheek. A faint stink of day-old fish clung to his skin. The remains of that alley cat's latest meal. "Looking for me, were you? The truth comes out, yes? And what luck… here I am. Now, stay. Stay with me."

"No, that's not what I…" He had a way with words that left her flustered. It didn't help that he laid his hands on her as if they were familiar, rather than strangers who had only met the day before. She slipped her hand under his, preventing him from touching her skin again. "Spindle really likes you."

"Yes. I'm a very likeable fella, Jessa."

"Aye, and she's warned all of us to… well, she wants her girls to stay away from you."

Rip nodded solemnly and took Jess's hand away from her face, intertwining her fingers with his, twisting them together until Jess didn't know where his hand ended and hers began. The stench faded the further his hand was from her face though Jess suspected now she would carry it.

"I'm sure she did. She doesn't want me to have any friends."

"Then you understand?"

"Understand?"

"That I shouldn't even have said this much." Jess tried to pull her hand out of his, slowly at first and, when his hold refused to slacken, with a little more force. "That I have to go— _ow_!"

Rip's grip had tightened. Jess stopped pulling because, all of a sudden, she knew that if she didn't, she was going to end up with a broken hand before he decided to let go.

"I understand more than you think I do. I understand you're scared, but you don't have to be. Not of me."

Lying through her teeth, Jess started to say, "I'm not afraid," but Rip wasn't done..

"I understand you're alone. So alone, Jessa. You've been waiting for me, even if you don't know it. Fate, yes? Because I also I understand that you need me as much as I want you—"

Feeling desperate, Jess gave another fruitless tug on her hand. His grip increased and she bit back a squeal of pain as her fingers mashed together. "Rip, I really have to go."

Rip's ice-cold eyes gleamed despite their dim surrounding. "I can't let you go. Not yet. Listen to me… no," he said, as Jessa looked behind her in a vain attempt to see if there was anyone passing by. With his other hand, he gripped her chin lightly and guided her head back so that she had to look back at him. "Listen to me,  _mio cuore_. Haven't you started to understand that I already know you better than anyone else?"

She fought the urge to close her eyes. Anything to escape his curious stare. "That's impossible. You don't know anything about me"

"Don't I?" he asked lightly. "Then tell me how we both came to be here tonight."

Jess bit down on her bottom lip; her nerves came through and she bit down too hard. She could taste blood as her the middle of her lip split open. Her stomach flip-flopped again. Rip squeezed her hand. The queasy feeling intensified.

"I don't…" She swallowed, licking the blood away and wincing at its tang. "Rip, I don't know what you're sayin'."

"Yesterday was chance. Pure luck, and I don't admit that lightly. But today..."

Rip massaged the inside of her palm with his thumb. He didn't seem to be content unless he was constantly holding her, touching her, feeling her. Jess just hoped she was wrong. That this was just Rip coming on far too strong, and that she was managing to misinterpret everything that had happened since she followed the cat into the dark.

And then Rip sighed and said simply: "I knew I'd find you here."

"How?" Jess asked. She hadn't known she was taking a different shortcut than her usual one until the minute the church bells started to toll and she said goodbye to Spindle. And the only reason she  _did_ go the long way around was because—

Because she was—

Because she was  _trying to_   _avoid_   _him_.

She gulped. "How did you know?"

His only response was a light laugh and a sudden tug. Taken off guard, there was nothing she could do to stop him.

When Rip took her hand and wouldn't let go, that's when she first suspected that running after the mangy alley cat this way was a mistake. But as he used his hold on her hand to yank on her arm and pull her towards him, catching her in his embrace with her back pressed against him, she had to admit that she had made a very big mistake—and that there was no going back just yet.

Jess tried to pull away but his hold was absolute. Like the night before, she was all but trapped: the most she could do was turn her head slightly in an attempt to look at him in the face again. It wasn't much, but Rip helped her by lowered his head and resting the point of his chin in the hollow of her shoulder. As he breathed her in, Jess felt her stomach lurch.

Her words were shaky and high-pitched as she repeated: "How did you know I'd come this way?"

"You told me you'd be here."

"I... but I didn't... how—"

"You did," Rip insisted. His lips brushed against her neck. "Four nights ago, you came to me."

"I never saw you before yesterday," argued Jess.

He didn't seem to hear her. "In an opium daze I spoke to my Maria and it was everything I hoped it would be. She...  _you_  told me we'd meet again if only I left Harlem. I did, and here we are."

Opium... that partly explained is strange behavior. She had never met a user before but heard about them through Grace. His forward actions and worrying insistences, it made sense if he was on the drug. She didn't like it—she didn't have to—but at least she knew that this infatuation would last only as long as his high.

She just had to keep his interest long enough before he did something she couldn't prevent. Despite his grip, she lengthened her neck in a big to move a little further away from him. It was difficult, but Jess kept her voice as conversational as possible as she said, "I don't know any Maria. Who is she?"

It was the worst question she could ask.

Rip's short intake of air was harsh and quick, drawing a strand of her wild curls away from her face. She couldn't see his expression, but she heard the hard edge of his reply.

"She is  _you_ , Jessa. And you are her."

"But... but I'm not. I can't be." In that moment, Jess wasn't thinking about Spindle or papers or even what tomorrow would bring. All she wanted was to get away, to escape from this stranger and the strange things he was saying. Her tremors returned. "Rip, please…" Her voice cracked but she didn't stop. "I… I think you're confused. I'll help you if I can. Do you want me to help you find Maria?"

"Don't you see, Jessa? I already have." He pressed his right hand tight to her belly. "Maybe, deep down,  _mi cuore_ , maybe you are just as eager for this as I am. We've waited for too long. It's finally time we were reunited again."

"You're right. I do see," lied Jess. Maybe this was the only way to do it. To agree and maybe then he would stop all of this. "And it would be nice to meet again, maybe after Spindle—"

"Forget about Spindle," ordered Rip. "She is nothing to me and simply another newsgirl to you."

And he meant it, too.

There was a time when Rip thought he and Spindle were meant to be. Both too damaged, too dangerous to love anyone else—Spindle's attack on the whore Aisling in his name to reclaim his favor was even worse than his sins, in his mind—he had started to believe that she was all he could ever have. But now, with Jessa, with his Maria reborn... his time with Spindle, with her murderous rages and her wounded, sad eyes, it would just be another bad dream.

"Think only of me, Jessa," he murmured into her ear. " _Solo a me_."

"I'll do me best," she fibbed. "But I really should be leavin' now. I've stayed too long."

"Not yet. Soon."

Something changed. Emotions were running high. She wasn't the only one desperate as Rip began to caress the front of her skirt, lifting the hem and the folds up off of the dirt floor, higher and higher with each quickened stroke. Her breathing matched his motions until Jess was almost choking on her panic. Fear came off her in waves, so thick you could cut it with a knife.

He stopped hiding his desire. It was now or never.

"Rip," Jess grunted, trying to get away from where she felt something hard poking into her back, "what are you—please, you're hurting me!"

"I'd never hurt you. I just want to show you how much I love you." He moved her hair away from her skin, resting the wild mane over her right shoulder, before placing a gentle kiss against the back of her neck. "How much I've always needed you."

He wanted to know the touch of a someone whole, someone pure; a virgin's touch that would cure his guilt and wipe clean the blood from his hands. It had been more than two years since his first accidental killing and no amount of remorse or prayers had saved him—or stopped him from killing again.

The yearning he felt for his sister since she was taken from him had only grown until now, here with Jessa, he could take her innocence for himself. Only then would he be free of the ghosts that haunted him and the demons that plagued him.

She was his reason and his everything and, while she didn't see that now, she would understand in time. He would make sure of it. Jessa would understand that everything he did, he did for his heart—for her.

Jess heard the  _snick_ over her feverish breathing. The sound registered but for one quick moment she was confused until she felt the chill of his steel blade as he pressed it against her thigh. She stopped thinking, breathing, moving as if the slightest motion would mean Rip stuck her with the knife's point.

Despite only having one free hand, Rip was quick and efficient; too stunned to actually realize what he was doing, Jess was paralyzed. In a matter of seconds, her stockings were nothing but tattered remains. He lowered the blade back into position against her skin, an unsaid threat.

"I don't want to hurt you, but if you pretend you don't want me, if you try to resist—relax,  _amore_. Let me in."

"No, I—"

The tears that came were hot and blinding but her panic kept them from falling. She gasped loudly, drawing in great big lungfuls of air in preparation to scream at last, but Rip was ready for it. He yanked her as close as he could, her back thudding into his chest. His blade slipped—whether on purpose or not, she never knew—and she felt the white-hot sear of pain as it left a slice along the side of her thigh.

Rip bowed his head down so that there was no space between them at all.

"Don't yell out, Jessa. Don't scream, don't cry… don't breathe a word of this, yes?" The sharp edge of his jaw cut into her cheek, his breath hot on her ear as he whispered one last warning, "It'll be our little secret."

* * *

It seemed like hours but could only have been minutes; his excitement and her inexperience meant it wasn't any longer. When it was over, Rip forced her down to her knees and together they both prayed: one for remorse and one for salvation.

He wouldn't let her move any further away from him than he could reach. She flinched any time he drew too close but, too utterly terrified, confused and defeated, Jess didn't have the strength to get too far. She stayed where he placed her, too stunned to do anything but remember to gasp in great lungfuls of air whenever unconsciousness threatened to overtake her.

Rip murmured one name, "Maria", under his breath as he lifted Jess onto his lap. The girl was more like a rag doll, heavy and lifeless and awkward to hold. She had given up the fight once his blade made it impossible to continue but, in her despair, she wasn't going to make it any easier for him. "I leave you to your rest,  _amore_."

The world was an ugly place now, one she had no desire to see. Jess kept her eyes closed through it all so, when Rip raised his hand and pressed two fingers against her eyelids to close them himself, all she knew was another of his unwanted touches.

He sighed.

" _Siete_   _il mio cuore_... ah,  _Jessa."_

* * *

**Translations:**

_sì_ : yes  
 _aspetta_ : wait  
 _solo a me_ : only of me  
 _amore_ : love  
 _siete_   _il mio cuore_ : you are my heart

* * *

**Author's Note:** This has always been the roughest scene for me to do, in every incarnation of this story (the original, the rewrite and now this, the revisal). CLAK was the second fic I ever wrote (many, many years ago) and that was before I learned what an unfortunately overused trope rape is, especially in this fandom. However, this is the relationship I always envisioned between Rip and Jess - and that was one thing I wouldn't change when I revised this story in my head. What I did want to do was push it. It's not just about this initial attack but exactly how he will use this to cement his hold over a young girl who did nothing but have the bad luck to resemble someone else.

(And if none of that made sense, you really should go back and read a) the first couple of chapters of this story and b)  _A Virgin's Touch_ \- especially with the call back to his motives in this scene).

-  _stress, 04.07.14_


	7. dia duit

**Disclaimer** : Most of the characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

* * *

****

**_Obsession: Cuts like a Knife_ **

* * *

Rip's last command was for her to rest. With the exception of her treasured silver chain, Jess would have given everything she owned to be able to let unconsciousness steal her away from this terrible nightmare. If she couldn't wake up from it, sleeping away the shock and humiliation and pain was the next best thing.

Except she couldn't.

Jess couldn't fall asleep, but she took great care not to let Rip know that. Her eyes never fluttered. She took short, shallow breaths in order to match his blissful exhales and soft sighs.

She sensed he was slumbering himself and tested him just the once. Slowly wiggling her battered body in an attempt to slide off of his lap, Rip's hold tightened immediately and she stiffened, her heart pounding so loud that she didn't understand how he couldn't hear it. After that she was unwilling to try again in case he realized she was awake.

Jess didn't know what he would do. She didn't think he could do any worse than he had already done—but he could do it again. And the fear, the absolute terror that he would climb on top of her once more and bend her...  _break_ her to his will was more than enough to keep Jess feigning her rest.

With her eyes closed, she couldn't tell how much darker it had gotten outside. It was well past curfew, that much was obvious, and she ached to think of Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor going to bed again, wondering what had become of their young ward.

What would they say if they ever found out that she had been sullied in such a way?

Nothing, that's what. Because they would never know. Jess would never tell them. She would never tell  _anyone_. Rip's whispered warnings echoed in her ears, no matter how hard she tried to drown them out. She didn't need the horrible reminder. She would take this night to her grave.

Which, if Spindle ever found out what happened, was exactly where she'd be...

Despite the humid night and the heat of Rip's body as he wrapped his arms around her, Jess shivered and inwardly cursed herself for it in the seconds that followed. Rip made a soft noise, a questioning sort of sound, and she suddenly knew that there was no way he thought she was still sleeping.

She was right.

Jess felt the gentle shake of her shoulder but didn't respond to it; she hoped he would leave her alone. She wanted him to fall into such a deep sleep that she could escape and run, run far away to a place where he could never get to her again. But then Rip started placing soft, feathery kisses against her back, then her neck, and she had no choice but to pull away.

"Mm, Jessa," he murmured and she found the lilt of his voice made her sick. " _È ancora un sogno?_ "

Her throat was sore from all the screams she had been forced to swallow. She tried to find her voice, but it took a few seconds. When she did, it came out scratchy and hoarse but as insistent as she meant it.

"Please… I have to go home."

"Yeah… yes, of course," he agreed, the Italian lilt fading with every word as he roused himself out of his peaceful sleep.

But he didn't move. He didn't let go.

And she panicked.

" _Rip_ —"

"Call me Luke," he interrupted. He licked his lips. "I want to hear you say it."

Her first instinct was to refuse him anything he wanted. But if it meant she could go—

"Luke, please," she pleaded. "They'll be waitin' for me. My guardians. I… I told you about 'em."

Rip had started to shift her off of his lap at the sound of his Christian name, but froze just as suddenly.

"That you did," he admitted, his voice taking on a queer quality. He settled her on the ground beside a stack of balanced crates before he grabbed her wrist loosely, tethering her to him for a moment more just in case she tried to jump and run. "But you won't tell them about me? About us?"

"No." His words ran through her mind again. Jess couldn't stop them. She gulped. "Our little secret."

Rip got to his feet and immediately held his hand out to her, a silent offer to help her. Something told her that it would be a very big mistake to refuse him so she took it as she gingerly stood up. She ached all over; it felt as if she had been hit by a cart but she tried to hide it, stepping gently as she tried to make sure her weak legs would support her weight.

She was so surprised that he was finally willing to let her leave that she didn't want to spend another second in his company. Without another look at Rip, Jess turned to escape the accursed alleyway.

"Jessa, wait—"

Hating herself for obeying, she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Turn around."

A flash of metal, cold steel against her skin. The threat lingered. Biting down on her bottom lip, the girl did what she was told.

Rip was right there. He lifted up her skirt, purposefully pretending not to notice how she cringed and whimpered when he did. The cut on her thigh had clotted over. It wasn't as bad now as it had appeared when it was freshly bleeding, but the smudged trail of dried blood mixed with dirt made it look worse. Licking his thumb, he wiped away the trail before lowering himself to his knees again and planting a soft kiss against the cut.

Jess shivered but just managed to keep from bolting. As if she had forgotten about the cut or his blade. Her skin burned from where his lips touched her. All she wanted to do was pour a cupful of witch hazel on it and wash the sting away.

"Go straight home," he told her as he stood back up. "Get some more sleep. Tomorrow you must arrive at the distribution gates as if nothing has changed between us. We lie—we are strangers, yes? And when Spindle speaks to you… and she will,  _mio cuore_ … you smile in her face. Because you have something she wants but she'll never know."

Rip reached out and straightened her skirt, lightly brushing away the dust that had turned the black fabric a faded grey. When she didn't say anything, he took her clammy hand and simply held it. "And you know what that is, don't you?"

Jess couldn't bring herself to answer. She shook her head.

"You have me." He squeezed her hand. "Don't forget it."

A single tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. Rip witnessed its fall. He let go of her hand before drawing closer to her.

For one wild moment, Jess thought he was going to strike her, but Rip was feeling generous. Using the same finger he had used to wash away the blood he spilled, he wiped away her tear. His icy blue eyes thawed enough to show her that he cared, even if she couldn't understand why—or how, if he could do something to her like he had just done.

"Go," he repeated. "Don't stop until you get home. We'll meet again soon."

Whether it was a threat or a promise, Jess couldn't tell. But she didn't think she'd be able to stand in his presence one second longer. And while going back to the O'Connors made her think her heart was going to leap out through her throat, she couldn't stay.

Hugging herself around the middle, feeling strangely cold and unattached, Jess started away from him. She never once turned to look behind her. She wasn't afraid any more, either, of what she might encounter on her journey back to the O'Connors. What did she have left to fear?

Rip followed after her, stopping at the mouth of the alley. He watched as Jessa slowly walked away from him. It took every bit of self control he had not to run after her and hold her close; she was still in his sight, but he already felt a chill as if she was taking all of his warmth with her.

Rip was glad to see that they were alone now. The cloaked hag with the book from that afternoon was gone, he noted. For having only been in Far Rockaway for a handful of days, it seemed as if he made a good choice for his hiding place. He would have use for it again. Soon, too.

And Spindle, damn her, would never know.

_Spindle…_

Arching his back, Rip stretched like a cat, trying to relieve some of the sudden tension that came with the thought of that name. His faded blue shirt was flapping open as he moved. Tucking Maria's golden chain beneath it, he straightened his short and did up the buttons perfectly. He had yanked his trousers back on when he was finished but readjusted them again before pulling a squashed cigarette and a box of matches from his pockets.

After lighting his cigarette, he put the matches away. He didn't have his comb with him so he made do with his fingers, following his part on the left. Then, feeling more like himself, he blew out a long stream of smoke through his nose.

_Spindle_ —

As much as he wanted to bask in his time with Jessa, his instinct for survival was kicking in. Now that he had her to protect, it was even more important that he thought his next actions through.

And that meant dealing with Spindle Scott.

He still had to take care of her, one way or another. Keeping her happy was probably the best option, if not the one he would rather delight in. Being with Jessa was like a baptism; now that he was cleansed and whole, he didn't want to get blood on his hands again.

Pretending he loved Spindle didn't seem so distasteful with Jessa's innocence still clinging to every inch of him. Rip breathed in deep, relaxing. A small smile crossed his handsome face.

What he had with Maria—no,  _Jessa_ … that was real love. He could fake it with Spindle. Isn't that what he had been doing all along? A couple of murmured apologies and some dishonest kisses and Spindle was easily appeased.

Rip had done it before and he knew that, until he got Spindle out of his life for good, there would be plenty cause for him to do it again. Remembering the scene in the bunkroom from the night before, he suspected that her jealousy would be terrible tomorrow morning. She would assume that he had been with someone else. She'd be right, of course, but that's why it was so important that Jessa go straight home instead of staying with him, and why Rip would wait until facing Spindle again until the next morning. He'd be ready for her then.

He felt reinvigorated and alive. The virgin's touch had made him whole. Rip almost wanted to laugh out loud, but settled on taking a satisfying drag on his cigarette instead. The entire night lay before him for plans and schemes.

But, for now—

Wrapped around his smoldering cigarette, Rip's lazy grin turned both predatory and feral as he purposefully started off in the direction Jessa had just gone.

* * *

It was hard for Spindle not to react the way she wanted to; her fingers were itchy and twitched to grab her blade and flick it open. She was angry, she was  _furious_ , but Rip wasn't denying the fact that he left her waiting for the second night in a row. The honesty was just a little disarming and she decided she would allow him tell his story before she got violent.

And then all bet's were off.

"So, Rip," she said through grit teeth, "let me get this straight: while I was sittin' on my ass all night waitin' for you to show up, you were on the fuckin' beach?"

Rip bit back his sigh of annoyance. He had been expecting this, but that didn't make her inquisition any less intolerable as she demanded him to repeat his story again and again.

"I would have much preferred to be fucking you than sleeping out on the beach because I missed curfew, but, yes, you're right."

"I don't believe you," she said flatly.

"I didn't expect you to. It was stupid of me, and I regret it. Sleeping on the sand is nothing like being with you." It hurt less, he thought to himself wryly, but in the end gave him no satisfaction. At least she was good for one thing. "I thought I knew this part of Queens better than I did. I got lost. I'm here now, though. I'm right where you are. Caity."

Spindle pulled a face at her name but his words hit home. For the first time since he arrived in Far Rockaway, he was waiting at the distribution gates when she arrived. He was waiting for  _her._

Rip watched her intently, watching her reaction. He had to be delicate when he called her Caity. Sometimes it worked, and she was like wax in his hand. Sometimes she snapped. He had to be careful.

He knew what to say next:

"Look, I got this for you. To show how sorry I am."

She crossed her arms over her chest, tossing her mane of long red hair over her shoulder. "Yeah? What?"

"Here."

Rip held out something between two fingers. It was roughly larger than a quarter piece, ridged and the color of sand. Spindle snatched it from him, then held it up to her face.

She wrinkled her nose. "What the hell is it?"

"It's a gift."

"Huh. It's a rock."

"No, no, no." He lowered her hand and pressed the backside of the shell against her palm. "It's a seashell. Hard, unyielding, yes. But on the inside," he said, pointing to the smooth, pink inner layer of the shell, "on the inside, it's beautiful. Like you. When I realized that I—" What was a good word for how he would have felt if he cared what she thought? Ah… "— _disappointed_ you, I spent the whole morning looking for something worthy of you."

Spindle's tough facade and angry veneer started to splinter and crack. She pursed her lips, almost unable to believe a word he was saying—though she desperately wanted to. "You did? For sure?"

The truth was that this shell was the first one his hand found when he sifted through the sand. It's edge was sharp, razor-thin, and it sliced his forefinger right open. Pretty and dangerous, even Rip had to admit that it was a perfect fit for her.

"It's mine?" she asked cautiously. When was the last time  _anyone_  had given her a gift?

"All yours."

Rip leaned towards her with the intent of giving her a quick kiss, something that would end this conversation for now. She accepted the seashell a lot easier than she swallowed his story at first, and while she initially demanded he admit that he wasn't alone, he was pleased to notice that she didn't mention Jessa by name at all. If it kept the girl safe from Spindle's irrational ire, it was worth any amount of thoughtless presents and false adoration.

Except, as he moved towards Spindle, he tensed and straightened up. His back was to the crowd gathered just inside of the distribution center, but he didn't have to turn around to know that someone was watching him.

He could feel their gaze on the back of his neck, direct and intense and burning him like the afternoon sun. Rip thought of Jessa again and had to work to keep the smallest of twitches from pulling against his lips. She had come, just like he told her to—and just like he had really spent all morning worrying she wouldn't.

Spindle was polishing the smooth underside of the pale pink shell with her thumb, checking it for imperfections, weighing this token as every bit of affection from Rip himself; lost in her perceived victory, she was currently oblivious to everything else going around them. Rip knew it was crucial that he kept her that way, but his will was weak. He wanted nothing more than to turn around, to look at his prize if only for a heartbeat.

Not right now. He trembled with temptation but he knew better. Not with Spindle so close.

Drawing two quarter pieces from his pockets, Rip pressed them against the palm of Spindle's free hand.

"It's getting late, no? Get the papers for me and then I'll let you take me around your city." A hint of desperation made him take her chin between his thumb and his forefinger before he added, " _Our_ city. If I got lost so easily, maybe it's time for that tour."

Spindle opened her mouth to say something but stopped when Rip gave her skin a gentle squeeze. She nodded, all signs of her earlier fury gone at the smallest sign of his affection.

"I'll be right back," she promised. "Don't go nowhere."

"As you wish, Spindle."

He knew Spindle. Like with Jessa, he knew Spindle Scott better than she knew herself. That's why, when Spindle stalked towards the line, he waited before he didn't anything else. She didn't just turn back once, but three times, a jealous hostility melting away when he was where she left him each time she peeked. But after the third time, when he saw the smug smile of satisfaction tug at her lips, he left her to storm her way to the window while he finally gave in and looked over his shoulder.

Someone  _was_  glaring daggers at his back.

It wasn't Jessa.

Disappointment flared up within him, only to be replaced with annoyance. Who was this girl? She was gawky and thin with a nose like a beak and piercing dark eyes. Thick, dark curls hung limply around her narrow face, framing an expression that was a mix of hesitation, curiosity and the desire not to be noticed. A flash of recognition was like an itch he couldn't scratch: he'd seen that same look before and recently, too. But where?

And why was she looking at  _him_ that way?

He had to know.

She wasn't alone. A girl maybe a year or two older and nearly a head taller stood next to her, speaking without half a clue that the dark-haired girl was barely listening. This girl was colored more like Jessa: sandy-colored hair that she wore pinned back, wide green eyes that seemed vibrant and alive, plus a smattering of freckles that reached from her cheek to chin. She was loud, her voice carrying over to Rip as he walked towards them both-and sputtering to a quick close when she realized that Rip really was heading for them.

"Morning," he said.

The taller girl recovered first. Whether or not it was a mocking gesture or not, she curtsied. Rip noticed, remembered it, and chose to ignore it. For now.

" _Dia duit_ ," she greeted with the smallest of smirks. If she suspected that he didn't understand her language, she didn't show it.

The one who had been staring at Rip lowered her gaze. She kept quiet.

He zeroed in on her. His charming smile slid easily onto his face though his eyes remained hard and searching as he tried to gather the reason behind her attention. "Now, please, don't think me forward… but have we met before? You seem familiar to me."

"That sure ain't likely!" burst out the other girl in English. Her accent reminded him of Jessa but he felt she had none of her charm. He disliked her immediately.

"Oh?"

"How could you 'a met Wren," she teased. "I mean, unless you get it in your head to hide outside of abandoned buildings just to stick your nose in some book."

Wren grabbed her friend by the arm. The motion was quick. She looked alarmed and that made Rip curious.

Very curious.

"Irish—"

"What?" Irish laughed out loud. Rip fought to keep a slight grimace from coming to his face. "At least I didn't mention your queer cloak. Makes you look like an old lady. How you 'spectin' to get a fella like this to look at ya in that ratty ol' thing?"

"Irish!"

Rip raised his eyebrows as Wren's whole face turned bright red. She wouldn't meet his eyes. And for good reason, too.

"Beggin' your pardon, Rip. Yeah," added Irish lightly, "we knows ya. Got the advantage on ya, seein' as how your Spindle's lad. I'm Irish Murphy, this is my pal, Wren. It's nice to meet ya."

"Likewise," Rip said, before ignoring Irish again in favor of the blushing Wren. "Are you sure we haven't met before? I swear, it seems we have."

Wren shook her head. "We come to the distribution center every day," she said, visibly relieved that Rip hadn't realized she was wearing her cloak and reading her book while he secretly met with Jess last night. If he didn't recognize her, she wasn't about to admit where he might have seen her. Not when she had decided she hadn't seen or heard nothing… especially nothing that she would have been honor bound to tell Spindle about. "Maybe you've seen us here."

"Yes. Perhaps."

Just as Rip was deciding how to go about getting Wren to confess what she might have stumbled upon while hiding with her book, a tiny, dirty, blonde girl appeared out of nowhere. Bounding over on a pair of stained bare feet, she addressed Wren and her friend while ignoring Rip as if he wasn't even standing there.

"Irish! Wren! I've been lookin' for you gals. Listen, have you'se seen Jess runnin' 'round anywhere?" She bit down on her bottom lip, already chapped and raw from the elements; it looked like she wore lip stains. "I can't find her nowhere."

Wren seemed grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. She turned to face the newcomer, her brow furrowed and her dark eyes concerned. Rip was watching for it and wasn't the least bit surprised when she glanced back his way once as if putting two and two together. Jess and Rip.

So, he thought to himself, she  _did_  know something.

"I haven't seen her myself. Not for days," Wren lied. "You, Irish?"

Irish shook her head. "Not since Spindle took her out for her run. I thought she let her in."

"That's what Snappa told me," the blonde girl said. "But I ain't seen her. And that ain't like the Jess I know."

Rip's hands clenched into fists at the girl's words. He couldn't help himself. They tightened and flexed and he felt a tic in his jaw as he clamped his teeth together. Forcing himself to calm down, he exhaled softly through his nose and relaxed, but that didn't stop him from feeling like a fool.

_And that ain't like the Jess I know_ …

Momentarily stunned, it hit him like a shooter to the chest. These girls were talking about  _his_  Jessa. He wasn't the only one searching for her, looking for her, expecting her. He wasn't the only one with a claim to her. Family, friends… Jessa had a life in Far Rockaway before he got there. A life without him.

Well, he decided darkly, that would have to change.

But, for now, he had to side with this girl. Where was his Jessa? He gave her exact directions. Go straight home. Rest. Show up at the distribution center as if nothing had happened, because if Spindle found out… he didn't like to think what he would have to do if she discovered the truth. Or how he would have to convince Jessa that she was to do what she was told because he was looking out for her.

What was she—

"Wait," announced Irish. Rip felt his breath catch in his throat as she pointed at a lone figure walking hesitantly through the gates behind him. She jerked her head that way. "Ain't that Jess now?"

Grace whipped her head to look. So did Wren. Rip, not even caring that Spindle could be back any moment now, followed their lead. And felt a mixture of adoration and pride when he saw Jessa walk gingerly to the back of the line, purposefully looking anywhere and everywhere apart from the corner where he stood with Grace, Wren and Irish.

He exhaled softly. Ah,  _Jessa_.

Without wasting another second, Rip turned back to Wren as if he didn't care at all about some friend of theirs, or as if he hadn't noticed that Spindle was heading towards them with a murderous glint in her eyes. He counted to three, offered Wren and only Wren a rakish grin and took her hand before anyone could stop him—or he could think better of his sudden plan.

His action took Wren by surprise. She didn't think to take her hand back right away so when Spindle came storming over to the trio, that was the first thing—the  _only_ thing—she saw.

"What's goin' on here?"

"Just making another friend, Spindle." Then, because it was important that she figured out what he wanted her to, he made sure to add, "Friends, I mean. Of course. My  _friends_."

Rip's smile was so charming, so sincere, that Spindle felt her heart start to pound. Or maybe that was because, out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Rip held onto Wren's hand for far longer than was necessary.

_Friends_ , ha!

Spindle slammed the stack of papers against Rip's chest before grabbing his hand and Wren's hand and yanking them apart. Her obvious jealousy made her cheeks nearly as red as her hair. She spun on Wren, her finger pointed and her mouth open as she started to toss out another threat, another warning, another rant that some other girl dared talk to her Rip.

But Rip, who chose not to say anything when she shoved the papers at him or grabbed him so roughly, laid his hand calmly on her shoulder and all words evaporated at once.

"Come, Spindle. Let us go now together." His eyes sparkled innocently, though deep down he purred in pleasure at just how easy it was to manipulate her. To manipulate  _every_ one. "Today is for me and you."

And then, without saying another word, he let his hand slip down and rest at his side. She jerked when he moved away from her, suddenly torn between having her say with Wren or keeping Rip as close to her as possible.

The choice was an easy one.

Spindle threw one last searching look back at Wren Monroe before trotting after Rip, her fists clenched and her eyes burning in sudden suspicion.

* * *

**Translations:**

_È ancora un sogno -_  Is this still a dream?  
 _dia duit -_ hello (literally: God be with you)


End file.
